#strike back project dawn

[emmy-germany]

Forever my favorite action duo:

Michael Stonebridge & Damien Scott -> Strike Back

Portrayed by Philipp Winchester & Sullivan Stapleton

Thanks to Misty for the edit

[brbl56]

Dream team ❤️‍🔥

Scott and Stonebridge, their first mission.

(Strike Back Project Dawn, Episode 2) 

[captaindeinony]

What. Sinnoh

[kirain]

Part twenty-four of my appreciation project.

@notimetoapologizecomic A fic based on their wonderful comic here. Thank you for feeding the fandom!

Emmrich's words were quiet, but devastating. "What are you doing?" he'd asked—and in the wake of that reproach came the unbearable dawn of realisation.

What were they doing?

The dining room-turned-war room was tense, no one eager to speak first. Taash leaned over the table, their clawed fingers digging into the wood, muscles taut beneath their armour. Davrin looked away, unable to stomach the sight of Emmrich's broken form, while Neve gripped her thighs to compose herself. Lucanis, as ever, remained still and watchful, though his brows furrowed in concern.

"There are so few of us left..." Emmrich whimpered. He looked from colleague to colleague, his eyes pleading. "Why are you fighting?"

But the question was lost to the rising storm.

"Neve's saying we should leave Rook in the Fade!" Taash growled, fury flashing across their face.

"Taash, I-I'm not—!" Neve tried to explain.

"You can't just say—!" Davrin interjected.

"Let's not—!" Lucanis began.

Voices clashed from every direction, building into a cacophony.

"ENOUGH!"

Emmrich's roar swept through the room like an explosion, glowing green with unearthly rage. Magic crackled around him, spilling from his mouth like a curse, the word striking the air with a force that made everyone shudder.

Then, all motion ceased; the silence that followed was thunderous in its own right. Words died on tongues mid-breath, fingers curled, hearts stopped. Eyes wide, they stared at the man who had never once raised his voice in anger—not like this.

"...E-enough," he stammered, his throat sore, teeth clenched to hold back a tide of pain. "Please."

His shoulders trembled as he lifted a hand to his face, trying to hide his tears—his exhaustion. The green glow dimmed slightly, though it still lingered around him like an aftershock.

"I beg of you. Have we not suffered enough?"

He looked so unkempt, so unwell.

Something was wrong.

"Emmrich?" Neve asked, alarmed.

But he didn't answer. He groaned, swaying on his feet, his breath thick and ragged.

"Please, no more. I—I can't..."

His parchments slipped from his grasp, followed by the hefty tomes he carried—thudding to the floor as his knees buckled.

Neve stood. "Emmrich, are you all right?"

He collapsed, his body folding in on itself like a flower wilting in the cold.

"Maker's breath!"

"Braska!"

"No!"

The team rushed over, stunned into action. Neve was the first to reach him, dropping to the floor and pulling him into her arms.

"Emmrich?" she said, masking her distress with a stoic expression. "Can you hear me? Are you conscious?"

A weak, guttural moan was her only reply. His eyes didn't open; his face was clammy, his complexion flushed. Only the remnants of effort and grief remained.

Taash crouched beside them, their eyes darting over Emmrich's slack features. "What happened?" they demanded.

Neve's fingers quivered as she checked his pulse. "He's overexerted himself."

"The shit's that mean?" Taash snapped.

"It means," Neve said, trying to keep her voice steady, "he's pushed himself too far. His body can't handle any more stress—nor his mind, for that matter."

Davrin crossed his arms, his brow creasing. "I think Lucanis was right. I don't think he's slept since Tearstone."

"He hasn't," the Crow said grimly. "His eyes... dark, sunken. I know tired when I see it—and that man passed it days ago."

"Crying has surely worn him down even more," Neve sighed.

Taash blinked at her. "How do you know he's been crying?"

"His cheeks—look at them. They're raw, swollen. He's been crying so much his skin's chafed."

For a while, the group said nothing, staring at their ruined companion—fragile, unrecognisable. Silence stretched between them; each too heartbroken to speak, too afraid to look away. All they could do was wait—and ache for what he'd become.

"Earlier was a guess," Lucanis eventually mumbled, "but now I'm certain he hasn't been eating."

"How?" Taash pressed.

"He hasn't joined us for a single meal."

"So? That doesn't mean anything. He could be eating alone," the frazzled qunari reasoned—though even they didn't believe their own wishful thinking. "Davrin said his library's on the floor, right? He's been... reading books and shit. Too busy to eat with us. He's allowed to eat alone, 'specially if he's working."

Lucanis shook his head. "On what? No dishes are unaccounted for. I've been washing them every night."

"Yeah?" Taash spit. "And you know exactly how many dishes are in the cabinet?"

"Yes."

The group frowned, then flinched as Neve gently slipped her finger into Emmrich's mouth, sliding it beneath his tongue.

"Vashedan!" Taash lurched back, disgusted. "What are you—?!"

"It's dry," Neve murmured, a tremor beneath her calm. "He's dehydrated."

"Are you saying," Davrin asked, his gut churning, "he hasn't even been drinking?"

"Seems that way, yes."

Again, everyone stilled, at a loss for words.

"Fuck..." Taash grumbled. "Why didn't we notice? Why'd we let it get this bad?"

A sudden, unnatural shadow fell over Lucanis. His spine stiffened, his mouth twisting into a shape that wasn't his own. His voice dropped—altered, deeper, sharper.

"Smells like. Sweat. And guilt," Spite hissed, his voice slithering from Lucanis' lips.

"Guilt?" Taash asked, confused.

"Over Rook," Neve said. "He told her to sever the knife's contact with Ghilan'nain."

"But that's not his fault!" Taash yelled. "He didn't know Solas was gonna trap her!" They looked at Emmrich, knuckles white at their sides. "You hear me, old man?! Stop blaming yourself!"

Neve held him a little tighter. "And they argued the night before the battle. Emmrich meant to apologise, but..."

Taash winced, the weight of it hitting them hard. But before they could respond, Spite leaned in, sniffing Emmrich—then everyone else.

"Smells like. Sorrow. I don't. Like it."

The other three stared at him. For Spite to seize control while Lucanis was still awake—he must have been feeling as wretched as the rest of them. Then, just as quickly as he had appeared, he vanished. Lucanis gasped and reeled back into himself.

No one spoke.

They didn't need to. Shame had already laid itself bare, in glances averted and breaths bated.

"...I'm sorry," Taash muttered to Neve. "I know you'd never abandon Rook by choice."

"I'm sorry, too." Neve swallowed. "I know this is hardest on you, Taash. You lost Lace. And now..." Her gaze drifted to Emmrich, pale and limp in her arms. "Losing Rook isn't an option."

At the sound of his beloved's name, Emmrich stirred. His fingers twitched as he reached out blindly—searching, eyelids fluttering.

"...Darling?"

Neve caught his hand—a small mercy that soothed the nightmare tormenting him. His grip was weak; his voice, weaker.

"He needs to lay down," she said.

The others nodded in agreement.

"We'll take him," Davrin insisted, nudging Lucanis. "Once he's in bed, maybe Assan will huddle next to him. Keep him company."

"That would be nice," Neve whispered.

Carefully, the two men took hold of Emmrich and began hoisting him over their shoulders. Though he wasn't heavy, his height made the process awkward, and they struggled to find a position that wouldn't cause him discomfort.

"Ugh, stop!" Taash groaned, stepping forward. "I'm not gonna let you drag him across the Lighthouse like he's a sack of turnips."

Before either the Crow or Warden could react, Taash scooped Emmrich into their arms, gathering him with surprising tenderness. His head lolled beneath their chin, his chest heaving—as if that simple adjustment, one he wasn't even aware he'd made, had drained the last of his strength.

"Taash?" Neve said, struck by the protective way they cradled him.

Strange to remember a time when they were at odds.

"Do you need help?" Davrin asked.

"I got him," Taash huffed, shifting towards the hall. "Come on, Neve—you can tuck him in, or... I don't know, whatever people do. Lucanis, you make him something to eat. I'll shove it down his throat when he wakes up."

"Of course," Lucanis said, heading to the pantry. "I'll make him a roasted sweet potato salad. One of his favourites."

"I'll get some pumpkin seeds," Davrin offered. "Couldn't help noticing we're out."

"Thank you. I'll need those to add texture."

"Right," Neve said, rising to her feet. "We get Emmrich settled, take a breather... then discuss what to do about Elgar'nan. Respectfully, this time."

"Agreed."

And with that, everyone turned their attention to the task at hand—Lucanis headed to the kitchen, Davrin to the eluvian.

Neve moved to follow Taash as they left the room, but her boot landed on something—Emmrich's scroll, the parchment crunching beneath her heel. She paused, one brow arching in curiosity, then bent to retrieve it. As she unrolled the edges, her eyes widened: a hastily drawn schematic, crowded with notes on the Fade.

"Is this... a lyrium dagger?"

[justiceforvillains]

Misunderstood

The bell above the door jingled as you stepped into the little coffee shop inside your company, the warm air wrapping around you like a comforting blanket. Sunlight filtered through the windows, illuminating the rustic wooden tables and the eclectic mix of mismatched chairs. You loved this place; it was your escape, a perfect spot to unwind with a book or catch up with friends.

After ordering your usual, you settled into a corner table, your laptop open in front of you. Gripping your coffee, you attempted to concentrate on your work, but your mind kept wandering back to the whispers surrounding Hyunjin.

He had joined just last week, but already, suspicions clung to him like shadows, swirling in the air like the steam from the espresso machine. With his tall frame and striking features, he emanated an intensity that made people step back. The rumors—some claiming he had served time in prison, others hinting at a troubled past—buzzed around the café, igniting both fear and curiosity.

Despite the opinions swirling around you, you didn’t buy into the gossip. Your company was known for its integrity; they wouldn’t hire someone who didn’t deserve a chance. Yes, Hyunjin had an almost intimidating presence, with his buzz cut and fire-like eyes, but the truth was, judging someone by appearances was a simple mistake.

Sitting at your usual spot, fingers nervously tapping the table, you found yourself stealing glances at the new intern. There was something captivating about him, an unintentional allure thanks to a tattoo peeking from beneath his sleeve, only adding to an aura of mystery.

Today, your heart skipped a beat as you noticed Hyunjin stepping out from behind the counter, his eyes scanning the room with an intensity that sent a thrill through you. As he caught your gaze, a spark of connection ignited between you. You quickly returned to your screen, but it was too late; he was already approaching your table, energy crackling in the air around him.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, his voice low and surprisingly soft, sending a shiver of anticipation down your spine.

“Of course,” you stammered, doing your best to appear casual, even as butterflies fluttered in your stomach.

Settling into the chair across from you, he leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table, an amused smirk dancing on his lips. “You look deep in thought. Working on a grand mystery?”

“Just… some projects,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper, unable to hold his gaze for long as the weight of the rumors lingered between you.

He studied you for a moment, his dark eyes filled with an intensity that made your heart race. “You know, people talk. I hear things,” he said, leaning back slightly.

Your breath caught in your throat at his directness. “Yeah, I’ve heard a few things.”

“Like what, exactly?” he pressed, curiosity shining in his gaze, the vulnerability of his tone pulling you in.

You hesitated, the rumors whirling in your mind. “Um… that you spent time in prison?”

He let out a soft chuckle, yet it didn’t quite reach his eyes, which held a flicker of something deeper. “That’s one of the nicer things people say about me.”

“Is it true?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, drawn in by the layers of mystery surrounding him.

“Does it matter?” He leaned forward, the intensity of his gaze holding you captive. “I’m here now; what I did before doesn’t define me.”

Your heart raced, understanding dawning on you. “But… people find it hard not to be scared when those kinds of rumors are flying around.”

His expression softened, like clouds parting to let sunlight break through. “I get it. Sometimes, when you look a certain way and carry a past, people jump to conclusions. But what if the true story is something entirely different?” His vulnerability swept over you like a gentle wave.

The weight of his words hung between you, pulling at your heartstrings. “Then I want to know,” you said softly, your heart steadying. “I want to see the real you, beyond the rumors.”

Surprise flickered in his eyes, and he leaned back, crossing his arms with a hint of amusement. “Not many people are willing to do that. Most would rather keep their distance.”

“Maybe they’re simply scared of what they don’t understand,” you suggested, feeling a surge of courage. “But I want to dig deeper. Sometimes, the most beautiful truths lie buried beneath the scariest stories.”

He smiled, his eyes lighting up with genuine warmth that made your heart flutter. “You really think there’s beauty in my past?”

“Perhaps,” you replied, newfound strength coursing through your veins. “We all have our shadows, but it’s how we choose to embrace them that defines us.”

Hyunjin regarded you thoughtfully, and you sensed the atmosphere shift; the tension dissipated, replaced by an unspoken understanding. “That’s a refreshing perspective,” he remarked, the admiration in his tone making you blush. “Most people don’t think like that.”

“Maybe they should,” you said, a slow smile spreading across your face, finding comfort in the connection that was blossoming between you. “You’re not who they think you are, and I can’t wait to uncover the layers of the real you.”

As the minutes passed, the initial fear that had surrounded him melted away, replaced by a warmth that radiated between you. Suddenly, Hyunjin laughed, breaking the moment. “What’s so funny?” he teased, his grin infectious. “The idea that a company like this would hire someone fresh out of prison?”

You felt heat rise to your cheeks, the jovial atmosphere engulfing you. “I thought the same! I knew it couldn’t possibly be true,” you admitted, unable to hide your embarrassment.

He chuckled again, his playful energy making your heart race. “The way you reacted when I sat down, though—I almost thought you agreed.”

✦ Masterlist ✦

[shrillow]

Winter Flowers - Ch 4

sylus x reader; dragon!sylus; human sacrifice!reader

Ch 1, Ch 2, Ch 3, Ch 4

NSFW: explicit smut, overstimulation, thigh riding, nipple play, penetration

“My forebears, by all that is good and kind, please do not let me be chosen . . .”

The girl speaks to the sky. To the river and trees. To the giving earth and the stones of a forgotten chapel. 

But the dead are not gods. They cannot move the mountains or bend the hand of fate.

That power belongs to the woman listening to the girl’s futile prayers, whose shadow falls across her bowed back, and speaks hope into her ear.

“Is this what you want, sweet girl,” the woman asks, “with all your heart’s desire?”

The girl turns, wipes the tears from her eyes, and gazes upon her salvation.

“Yes.”

The woman places a ring, a brooch, and a necklace into her waiting hands.

“Then, child, speak your wish.”

-

The dawn finds you in the dragon’s arms.

You heave against his neck, clutching his shoulders with all your mortal strength while he vibrates with laughter. 

“Don’t tell me my fierce shepherd is scared,” he teases.

Your eyes crack open just enough to glare at the dragon. “The last time we were in this position, you were gravely injured.”

Light spills in an inkstain across the pebbled clouds as Sylus stands upon the edge of the cliff. It is easier to focus on what’s above you than what’s below, if only to spare your stomach and your fraying nerves from the sight of the sheer drop.

The dragon bristles in mock offence. “Your flare for the dramatics rivals even mine.” His voice drops to a lover’s pitch. “Someone would have to shoot me down before I let you fall.”

You release an uncertain breath.

From the corner of your eye, the city is a pin’s head across the lake. If you were to take one step over the cliff, it would still be the furthest you’ve been from home. 

“Don’t go too high,” you tell him.

Sylus’ wings stretch out behind him, their membranes so red as if they caught fire and never stopped burning. He flashes you a smile that could replace the sun before he jumps off the ledge, swooping low and fast towards the glittering lake and the city beyond.

-

What can you say? The air is blisteringly cold, your stomach lurches from the momentum gathered by the dragon’s wings, and your scarf nearly goes sailing into the winds if it isn’t for his keen reflexes.

And by the forebears, is he strong.

Sylus is in his element, weightless among the clouds. You suspect that if he weren’t carrying you he’d be doing somersaults in the air.

With a shock of boldness, you crack an eye open.

Below, miles of thornapples encircle the mountains, a psychotropic wasteland decreed in a violent red. Chalk-white bones sprinkle throughout the scarlet meadow. Yours would have joined the remains of countless creatures and hapless adventurers if Sylus hadn’t come to your aid.

She says your name. She stands with you in the field. The bell chime of your mother’s voice rings alongside the fragrant breeze. Spear in hand, blood stains bloom on her hunter’s clothes where crimson petals fall.

“Those are no natural flowers.”

Sylus wipes the sweat from your feverish brow. “I should have warned you about them. I did not think you would wander so far . . .”

Though your strength evades you, you manage to pull the dragon down on your bed. “Have they always grown here?”

“They appeared only in the last couple of decades or so,” he says, “but they are stubborn things. It only took a few years to cover half the mountains. And they bloom no matter the season.” His fingers run across your bottom lip. “Like someone I know.”

You’re snatched from your thoughts when the cold wind strikes your face as the dragon dives toward the earth.

“Sylus!”

His wings snap open just before hitting the waters. Mist sprays behind you as Sylus drags a toe through the glassy surface. You wrap all your limbs around the dragon, releasing a string of curses right into his ear.

His lips tickle the nape of your neck as he chuckles. “Look.” He turns your head towards the water.

Your reflection stares at you. In your and Sylus’ combined shadows, you see silvery heads swimming through the currents. They scatter when your finger pierces the surface. The early sun skips across the lake in a dozen colorful rays, and when you look back, the mountain is merely an arrow- head lodged in the ground as it recedes from view.

A few powerful thrusts of his wings, and you’re nearly grazing the clouds. You gape at the wild landscape. Tarus City lurks like an interloper amidst the natural terrain with its brazen towers groping the heavens and formidable walls announcing a clear separation.

“It looks like a castle!” you shout against the wind, “Does someone rule the city?”

“Tarus has no sovereign. It rules itself, for better or worse.” Sylus banks left to avoid a flock of geese.

You stow away the morsel of information, before your attention is captured by a pair of eagles circling each other. You watch them dive and pivot, weaving around each other, before their talons lock together and they careen towards the trees.

“Do you ever get tired of flying?” you ask Sylus.

“Never.”

You believe it. Only fools would take this view for granted, the world sprawling before your eyes like an infinite scroll. The potential of the boundless horizon calling to every fibre of your being.

Gradually, the freezing air doesn’t seem so unbearable. Your stomach calms, and Sylus’ reliable arms hold you secure.

“Can we go higher?”

He raises an eyebrow. “First you want me close to the ground, now you want to fly higher.” But his chastisement holds little weight when his eyes burn with such unbridled delight.

Without another word, he snaps his wings, and then you’re ascending into the silver clouds.

-

You reach the city all too soon.

Sylus lands somewhere outside the walls, in a small clearing shrouded by the woods. You reluctantly let go of each other.

Even from this distance, you hear the muffled sounds of the city, but when you look back at Sylus, you release a sharp gasp.

“What?” Sylus cocks his hornless head at you.

“You’re . . .”

His wings and tail are also missing; the scales that once decorated his shoulders and neck have been replaced by smooth, spotless skin. He could be mistaken for an ordinary human.

Sensing your confusion, Sylus explains, “This may be the city of fiends, but I’m not interested in drawing unwanted attention.”

“Fiends?”

Instead of responding, Sylus leads you toward the city and the moment you pass the gates, you almost trip over a skeletal little creature that scampers right in front of you.

“Watch it! ”

The imp glares at you. He doesn’t leave until you stammer out an apology.

That’s when you realize there are almost no humans in Tarus city.

Demons, goblins, djinn, nymphs, and fae man the street vendors, calling out their wares to the patrons strolling by. The clientele sifting through their stalls are equally diverse. Sprites race through the air above you, weaving between the pinched buildings with practiced ease, while towering dryads lumber down the streets on sylvan legs.

You cling to Sylus for fear of separation by the thoroughfare’s hectic current.

The streets are clogged with the rush of early morning merchants and patrons. Tile-roofed buildings several stories tall loom above you from all sides, crowding you in. Their exteriors form a mosaic of varying materials—from brick to wood to mortar and stone. Bridges and grand archways criss-cross throughout the city. Painted flags hanging from every ledge and window snap in the breeze. Noise of every kind startles your senses.

Sylus yanks you against him right before a rickshaw driven by a frazzled satyr hurdles past you.

Your nails leave shallow impressions into his arm where you cling to him, anxious you’ll get swept away by it all. But Sylus—doesn’t let that happen. His hand is warm against your waist, gently steering you through the disorienting chaos.

“Is it always this busy?” you nearly shout to compete with the raucous.

Sylus guides you past peddlers holding out their wares. A look from him has the vendors moving to their next potential customer rather quickly.

“Most are here for the festival,” he replies, “they’ll be gone by the next moon.”

Your mouth hangs open at the array of goods being sold along the streets. One minute you’re drawn to the sweet smell of pastries, then to the crafts and artwork, and next to the handmade bead necklaces and embroidered ribbons.

As the day progresses, the chaos of the city fades to a manageable buzz as you explore the market. Sylus patiently follows as you stop at nearly every stall, shopping to your heart’s content. At one such table, Sylus snatches the trinket you’re currently admiring with a chuckle.

“Really, kitten?” He dangles the cat figurine hanging from a simple cord just out of your reach. “Ivory charms?”

“It’s a talisman,” you argue, “and I like it.”

“We need to improve your taste, sweetheart.”

In the end, Sylus tosses a silver piece on the counter before shuffling you along to the next stall.

No one spares either of you a glance. To them, you and Sylus are a couple of unremarkable mortals. Perhaps those with a keen eye might notice Sylus’ red gaze and suspect a drop of demon blood. But here, that seems a common enough occurrence.

You pass other humans hand-in-hand with a fiend or some other supernatural being. You notice not-quite-mortals slipping in and out of the shops, spectating the street performers attracting hordes to their craft, and working the shops and tables as you pass by them.

These hybrid individuals are not so dissimilar to Sylus. There’s a touch of the otherworldly in the way they move; a rare handful sporting a set of horns or wings denote their fiendish heritage.

You observe the dragon from the corner of your eye. His hair is a shock of white beneath the unclouded sun. His unnatural height alone catches more than a few curious stares, but he doesn’t pay them any mind. He is much too busy playing your shadow as you flit about town.

For all that he is still beautiful, there’s something about this human Sylus that perturbs you.

Surrounded by horned fiends of every ilk, perhaps Sylus could have gotten away with his? The thought nags at you until you pass the skull of an enormous dragon displayed above the doors of a guildhall.

Sylus’ head snaps to you when you gasp, before following your gaze.

He snorts. “How gauche. Looking at the state of the building, they’d be better off selling the bones.”

Frowning, you shift your attention to the hall. Several roof shingles are missing, one window is boarded up, and the entire exterior is in dire need of a fresh coat of paint to cover the sun spots and other stains. And although the doors are open, no one is entering.

Your eyes return to the skull.

“It’s huge,” you whisper. It’s larger than Sylus’ in his dragon form. Years of sun exposure have bleached the bones to a starch white. Awe and horror twist your gut like an undigested meal.

In contrast, Sylus looks upon the remains with the cool indifference of an art inspector.

“Dragon hunting was all the rage at one point,” Sylus muses, “This is what happens when you butcher something to extinction.”

Without another glance back, Sylus ushers you passed the dilapidated hall.

“Aren’t you mad?” you ask him.

He meets your worried eyes, seeming more amused by your query than anything else. “I used to be.”

“What changed?”

He takes longer to answer.

“Perspective.”

-

“Hey Miss!”

You turn towards the voice. Feathered wings catch the light as they wave at you from the other side of the square. A boy, you reckon, but when you look closer, you realize the creature’s lower body is that of a bird’s. 

A harpy, your mind recalls from the bestiaries. A ceramic opera mask obscures his face.

You wave back at him just as a cart rolls between the two of you. Someone behind you suddenly pushes you hard enough that you nearly trip. When you glance over your shoulder, you see the same harpy run past you—with your bag slung over his shoulder.

“Hey!” You dart after him through the crowd.

How did he move so fast?

You lose sight of the harpy several times. The boy crops up on the other side of the street in a flash before vanishing again, only to reappear in a completely different part of the market. 

“Sweetie?”

Sylus catches up to you, concern in his eyes.

“Someone stole my bag,” you heave.

The dragon scans the area, face darkening with a hunter’s intent. “Did you see them leave?”

—A flurry of feathers. A painted mask glancing back—just in case. Just to make sure.

That uncertainty will cost him.

You point in the harpy’s direction.

Sylus growls. “Stay here.”

But just as the dragon takes off down the main street, you see the same mask disappear down a side alley.

“Wait, Sylus—” But the dragon is faster than you can speak.

Wasting no time, you follow the thief down the alley. Lucky for you, the lane is narrow and long, providing few exits and plenty of time to catch up to him.

The matching sounds of your footfalls echo through the passageway. Although he’s fast, you’ve had a lifetime of chasing down plenty of wayward sheep. The walls are so close together, the harpy is unable to spread his wings to fly away.

But then you see the other end of the corridor.

With a snap of your fingers, a ball of fire explodes out of thin air right in front of the thief. It lasts only a second, but it’s enough to throw the harpy to the ground, stunning him.

“Wait wait wait—!”

You ignore his protests as you search his person. “Where’s my bag?"

To your dismay, the thief has nothing but the threadbare clothes on his back. His panicked eyes stare at you through the mask.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Your brow furrows. You swear this is the same person who took off with your belongings. You remember the exact detail of his mask. 

The boy takes advantage of your confusion as he scrambles to his feet and leaps past you, only to slam right into—

“Not so fast. ”

Sylus’ hand clamps around the thief’s. His expression is glacial.

The harpy pales, he wriggles in the dragon’s grip but to no avail.

“Let him go!”

Out of the blue, a second harpy, wearing an identical mask, lunges at Sylus, only to be swatted away like a fly. The fleeting distraction is enough for the other to free himself, but not without his mask hitting the ground with a crack .

A scarred, boyish face stares wide-eyed at you and Sylus.

The harpy doesn’t have time to retrieve the shattered mask before his partner grabs him and they flee the alley.

In the spot where the second thief fell, lies your bag.

“Are you hurt?” Sylus kneels by your side.

“There were two of them, huh?” You shake your head. “I fell right for their ruse.”

His hand cradles your face while he stares after their retreat with narrowed eyes. “Thieves will take advantage of anyone if they think they can get away with it.” He sighs, gaze softening when his attention returns to you. He retrieves your bag and secures it beneath your cloak. “Keep your valuables hidden, and don’t wander too far ahead.”

You take the shattered pieces of the mask from the ground.

“They seemed young.”

“They should be old enough to know to pick on someone their own size.” Sylus offers you his arm. “We should rest. Wouldn’t want you burnt out on day one.” He smirks, and you poke his cheek in retaliation.

Although the alley is empty, Sylus’ eyes drift upwards but when you follow his gaze, you see nothing except the empty sky beyond.

-

The both of you lie chest to chest on the narrow mattress of your cramped lodgings which Sylus acquired after an extensive round of bargaining with the innkeeper. While the bedding is itchy, and the air is drenched with the smell of too many scented oils, you’re lucky any room was available during the festival.

“I’ll find us better accommodations tomorrow,” Sylus grumbles, uncomfortable with the cramped space.

You’re tracing the broken edge of the thief’s mask with your finger, admiring the artistic expressions and faded colors.

“Could you fix this?”

Sylus eyes the mask. “Are you planning on joining the theatre?”

You place a piece of the mask over your face. “Maybe.”

Without warning, Sylus flips you onto your back. “Don’t tell me you want to return it to those harpies.”

“They're just kids.”

“You can’t give every fiend the benefit of the doubt,” he insists.

You sigh, take another mask piece and place it on the dragon’s face. “They remind me of my brothers.”

Sylus watches you through the eyeholes. Sometime between the next few heartbeats, Sylus whispers, “If I had any siblings, I don’t remember them.”

It is a worrying confession coming from one with an eidetic memory. Not for the first time do you wonder at Sylus’ age. You imagine the child he once was, with gorgeous ruby eyes, and whose horns were mere nubs protruding from unruly silver hair. What kind of youth had he been?

You try to picture his family. But to your dismay, all that comes to mind is the skull above the guildhall.

A testament of what is lost, what can never be returned.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him.

His grief is a subtle beast. Blink, and you’ll miss the way he pretends it doesn't hurt. “Very few have said those words to me,�� he murmurs. “Will you tell me about them? Your brothers?”

And so you do. You weave for him your childhood. Until your youth becomes his and even the memory of your mother is rendered to a dull, manageable ache.

Later that night, you momentarily wake to the sight of the dragon bent over the small table in the corner of the room, a set of delicate tools in his hands. A singular candle illuminates Sylus as he whispers words of magic into the blue darkness.

-

Sylus surrenders to the flow of the city, to its boisterous energy and ceaseless change, but he never quite loses himself to it. Not like you, who—very quickly after that first stumbling day—takes to the foods and the people and customs as if you were raised on Tarus’ very streets.

It doesn’t stop him from indulging your every whim. Fickle as you are, if you express even a mild interest, Sylus doesn’t waste a moment to acquire it for you. Of course, you’ve kept your purchases small or consumable, having no place to store it after all.

But sentimentality is a tricky impulse to curb. 

You pick up a pair of matching bracelets. Twin pellets of mixed silver and gold are framed by a smaller set of red beads. You foolishly wonder if Sylus might fancy them for his hoard.

As if a bit of metal and some beads would impress the dragon.

You ask the jeweler, “How much for these?”

She names her price. You offer the coins without bargaining and stow away the bracelets. Were Sylus with you, he’d give you a disapproving grunt. But judging how much you still had, you suspect you don’t have to worry about stretching your money.

You find the dragon a couple stalls down, flipping through several books on display with furtive, troubled glances.

“Don’t miss Love Among Dragons!” A woman hands you a flyer, printed with the image of two dragons intertwined.

“Have you seen this play, Sylus?”

He snaps his book shut. “Only involuntarily,” he grumbles as soon as you pass the advert to him. “They hold it every year.”

“What’s it about?”

“Love,” he says, “and dragons.”

You elbow him.

“It’s about the love story of two ill-fated dragons,” he explains once he stops laughing. “While we’re no friends to lesser fiends, we provide excellent source material for their entertainment.”

Before you can ask any further questions, you glimpse a familiar face staring at you from a windowsill.

“It seems we’ve gained a couple of shadows,” Sylus whispers in your ear.

You tense. You track Sylus’ gaze the opposite way until you catch sight of an opera mask—and tawny feathers slipping through the crowds.

“Hey!” you shout, drawing several eyes.

The pair of harpies freeze.

The masked one is the first to move.

“Kieran, run!”

Faster than any of you can comprehend, Sylus blocks their escape. No one intervenes as Sylus sets the harpies down on a nearby bench, arms crossed while he waits for you to join him.

The one named Kieran glares at the dragon. “Look, we’re sorry we tried to steal from you! What more do you want?”

Sylus’ frown turns into an unimpressed scowl. “You’re lucky we haven’t dealt with you in a more permanent fashion.”

“Sylus! ” You glare at the dragon before turning to the harpies with an apologetic smile. “We want to return this.” You present the mask, whole, and more vibrant than the day it broke.

The pair stare at you in surprise. But when neither of them move, you try again, “Please, take it.”

Hesitantly, Kieran accepts the mask. His surprise and gratitude is evident as he turns it over in his hands. 

“Thank you,” he whispers. Then, guiltily, says, “Luke and I don’t have anything to give in return.”

“This is a gift,” you reassure, “and an apology for damaging it.”

His brother watches the exchange with guarded eyes until he reluctantly removes his own mask. “We really are sorry for trying to rob you.”

The harpies are mirror images of each other. Boyish and timid as they stand before you. You’re right about how young they are. You can guess why they’re out on the streets dressed in meager rags, alone. You guess that’s why they tried to steal from you in the first place.

“Do you have a place to stay?” you ask, “We’d offer but we’re . . . not from around here.”

Keiran’s feathered ears perk up. “Are you looking for somewhere to stay?”

“Because we know a place!” Luke adds.

Sylus sends a suspicious, disapproving look with you, but you merely shrug.

“Lead the way,” you say to the twins.

-

Luke and Kieran take you to an abandoned priory.

You’re surprised to find such an austere building in the middle of the city.

Dust flies in your face the moment the twins wrench the doors open, revealing a grand hall with looming pillars ensnared by hungry vines. A few statues remain standing like eternal sentinels in alcoves, though their bodies and faces have been desecrated some time ago. A line of narrow stained glass windows on either side travel to the back of the hall where the broken remnants of an organ rests forgotten and waiting.

“It’s no palace, but it’s spacious, and everyone avoids it.” Luke kicks some rubble away.

“Why does everyone avoid it?” you ask.

“Oh, it’s cursed.”

Sylus chuckles. “With dust mites and a draft.”

Kieran tours you through the ceremonial hall, to the sleeping quarters and the kitchens, through an inner courtyard and a study area. Remnants of the priests or monks who resided here are scattered throughout these spaces. You even see the evidence that they once ran an orphanage here.

“You get the best view of the city from the belltower!” Kieran exclaims.

Indeed, after ascending several flights of creaking stairs, you’re met with the sunset cresting the city walls, flooding the streets in amber.

“Are you sure we can stay here?” you question.

“Of course, no one’s been here for years.” Luke’s voice is giddy behind the mask.

Sylus wanders to the windows, arms crossed, but you can tell that he’s pleased by the vantage point. “Why didn’t you two claim it then?”

“Uh, because it’s cursed?” Kieran answers as if it’s obvious. “And Luke is afraid of ghosts.”

“Don’t tell them that!”

While the twins find themselves in a round of arguing, you realize that Sylus has disappeared. You return to the main hall and find Sylus in the inner courtyard before a cracked monolith, an epic scene carved into its surface.

“Is that the god they worshipped here?”

Sylus purses his lips. “The plaque is missing, so there’s no way to tell.”

You study the figure depicted in stony relief. “What is she doing?”

“Slaying a monster.”

“Then why is it embracing her?”

“Maybe it’s trying to eat her.”

You roll your eyes. “This place does seem better than the inn.” You lean against him when he draws close, his lips inches from yours. “Cursed or not.”

Before you become carried away, you present the matching bracelets to Sylus.

“I bought these for us,” you say, “Will you wear it for me?”

Surprised, he studies the bracelets before proffering his wrist to you. “To what do I owe this token of generosity?”

“No reason.” You mask your nervousness with a light tone as you fasten the bracelet. “Just something to remember this day.”

The warm stroke of his fingers across your cheek is enough to calm your heart. You welcome the sure glide of his lips against yours a moment later.

“I need no memento for that.”

Still, because you offer and because he’d be loathe to deny you anything, Sylus slides the other bracelet onto your wrist.

You, who was raised without gods, find divinity beneath the vaulted ceiling of a fallen deity’s house as you invite the dragon into your arms. Even as your mortality passes through his deathless embrace with every beat of your heart.

-

“Silk from Ivory City?”

“Care for a sample of our sweet huangjiu?”

“Fresh fruit! Fresh fruit, my lady!”

You purchase what you can only describe as a pink melon, only to have several bright red seeds spill at your feet when you crack it open. You stare at Sylus helplessly.

“It’s called a pomegranate.” Sylus takes one half of the fruit and plucks the gems from their fibrous bed one by one, handing them to you.

You hold up the seeds to Sylus. “They match your eyes.”

Grinning, he takes a seed with his mouth, chewing slowly. “Trust me, the fruit tastes much sweeter.”

You try fried rice cakes and custards, sweet dates and savory tarts.

You and Sylus make paper lanterns together. You visit a shrine to write messages to the spirits on parchment scraps before throwing them into the fire. You peruse the boutiques while Sylus haunts the jewelry stalls. You attend dances, puppet shows, concerts, and the fighting tournaments. 

It doesn’t take long for you and the dragon to make yourself at home within the old cloister, taking up residence in the sleeping quarters and watching the sunsets from the belltower.  

While street plays and other performances take place during the day, the city is just as alive at night. Buskers line the streets in full force. Musicians flood the crisp night air with their strange, enchanting music.

“Look at that.” You point at a magician breathing life into an automaton. With a whisper, the metal dog springs toward the gathered crowd, barking happily.

You share a secretive smile with Sylus. “Yours are more impressive.”

You pretend not to catch the tiniest pur he makes.

As the sun relinquishes its hold on the sky, Kieran bounds towards you and Sylus. “C’mon, the parade’s about to start!” He nudges you with his wings, beckoning you to follow him to the top of the city wall.

Sylus grimaces. Out of earshot, he whispers, “You really had to invite them?”

They said they knew the best spot to watch the floats,” you defend.

“Sweetie, you could’ve asked me.” His voice is the perfect mix of exasperated and petulant. But he follows the harpy to his brother who waits for you along the parapet.

Soon enough, a long, extravagant procession creeps along the street below. A troupe of Nereids caper in perfect synchronicity, actors in operatic costumes weave between the marching bands while harpies and other winged beings fly long ribbons through the sky. Minotaurs and dryads push platforms carrying grand statues.

You grasp Sylus’ hand as you lean over the battlements, in awe of such splendor. The crowds along the wall begin to throw confetti down into the city. Luke and Kieran hand both of you a bag full of shredded paper.

Around the corner, the most magnificent float of the night rolls down the street. A long-bodied golden dragon, twisted and looping with a complexity to confound the mind. No detail was overlooked, no opulence spared. Silk ribbons flutter about the lacquered head. When it passes you, an explosion of gold dust erupts from the dragon’s open mouth.

Your laugh tangles with the music, watching as specks of dust settle on your clothes and hair, until you are wearing a veil of gold. And when you look at Sylus . . .

Is there anyone more beautiful than him?

You would gladly sink beneath the weight of his soulful gaze. Liquid fire ignites under your skin while he watches you as if he were made for nothing else. To admire your joy, your existence as flecks of gold settle around you, is the only thing he wants to do.

During your walk back to the priory, you ask Sylus, “How often do you attend the festival?”

He replies, “I stopped coming a long time ago.”

You pass couples lingering in the streets after the celebrations. They too, searching for ways to prolong the night.

Sylus doesn’t have to explain himself to you, but he does anyway. “We are no more than meat to harvest, even to lesser fiends. More useful dead than alive.”

Because they have not seen him spread his wings to bask in the dawn light, nor witness the moon dust silver light across his graceful horns. And they never will. Only you can speak to the otherworldly beauty of his eyes under the sun, the dew that collects on his scales when he lies too long in the morning grass.

Now all of that has been glamored over. Discarded so that he can walk the streets with you.

“Were you always able to change your appearance?” you ask.

He shakes his head. After some hesitation, he shares, “When I was too young to control my form, I would cut off my horns and scales.” Sylus’ gaze is far away. “Until my tail grew out. When that happened—well . . . there was no way I could hide after that.”

A boy raises a knife to his head, to his shame. Innocent skin bleeds. The evidence of his nature scattered in the peaceful, ignorant snow. All for a world insulted by the mere notion of his existence.

“I can understand why you’d hate us,” you murmur.

“Hate you?” The dragon stops. “I’m afraid there’s been a grave misunderstanding.”

The streets are nearly empty when he brings you even closer to him. His eyes lack the contempt you expected to find.

“Mortals have been the subject of my endless fascination,” he confesses, low and gravely like distant rain, “albeit, to my own detriment. But I have never hated you.”

“Doesn’t it bother you?” you ask, “Having to hide yourself?”

He considers your words.

“No,” he answers. “Does it bother you?”

Yet despite the necessity of a mortal guise, in this city of magic beneath the fae lights where long-eared elves play their melancholic hymns, you and the dragon have found a place here.

“More than I expected.” You raise an eyebrow at his surprised expression. “Is it hard to believe that I prefer the real you?”

Your pulse flutters to the sudden, alluring tone of his voice as he whispers, “I never considered myself a creature of faith.”

Where blood spills across the dead earth, flowers sprout between the ice.

“But perhaps you’ll make a convert of me yet.”

-

You almost forget to close the doors before you pull Sylus into a searing kiss.

“You’re ravenous tonight.” Sylus smirks at you, but it doesn’t last long after you push him down on the mattress and straddle his lap.

“And whose fault is that?” You nip at his ear. “Let me see you.”

His eyes flicker to yours. “Are you sure?”

“Have you ever known me to be otherwise?” You take his face in your hands, cast in a haunting silver by the unshrouded moonlight snaking through the windows.

You watch him take a sharp breath, and then—

Black horns emerge between silver locks, followed by his tail which curls around the both of you.

“There he is,” you sigh. As lovely as he is as a human, nothing quite compares to the version before you. “My dragon.”

You cradle the base of his horns, watch as Sylus’ eyes flutter and a sweet moan escapes his lips.

You ask, “How do you want me?”

His eyes gleam with excitement. “I’m curious to see just how much pleasure you can take.” His touch dances along the edge of authority as he strokes your back. “What do you say?”

“What do you have in mind?” You smile as he drags his lips down your neck.

“I’ll start like this.” His breath grazes your nipples through your dress. “I’ll work your tits until you cum.” Goosebumps break out along your arms. “Then I’ll make my way down to where you want me most.” He follows the shape of your body until he reaches the apex of your thighs, pushing a hand between them. “You’ll cum on my thigh, my tail, then my fingers and tongue.”

He teases you through your garments until an unmistakable wetness dampens the thin fabric. “And lastly, you’ll finish on my cock.”

“Fuck.” Your mind is already melting into that ambrosial haze.

“Is that a yes?” 

“Yes.” You slip out of your dress, craving his naked skin against yours. “Now take off your clothes.”

Sylus doesn’t need to be asked twice; the next thing you know, Sylus is pulling your body against him and lapping at your hard nipples.

Briefly, you wonder how you’ll be able to cum just from him playing with your breasts. While you enjoy the heat of Sylus’ mouth on them, you’d much rather have him down there . That is, until he rolls your nipples between his fingers and your arch off the mattress.

Heat shoots straight to your core. You grip Sylus’ shoulders and roll your hips against his body, desperately searching for more skin, more friction, more .

He gives one last tug on both of your nipples, eliciting a muffled whine, before he clamps his greedy mouth around one of them and sucks deeply.

“Ah!”

He twists the other as his tongue swirls around the hard bud of your tit, slurping so loudly and unabashedly, the sounds go straight to your cunt.

The blinding pressure steals the air from your lungs. “I-I’m going to—”

Sylus flicks your nipple—hard—and every muscle in your body seizes as your first orgasm crashes through you. You squeeze your thighs together, your nails bite into the meat of Sylus’ arms. 

“There you go.” His voice borders on a purr. Sylus plants a kiss against the supple round of your lower stomach. “My lovely girl.”

You clench around nothing at his saccharine words. You are silk in his hands as he gently lifts you. 

“Come here, on my lap.” Sylus pulls you up until you’re straddling one of his thighs—where his skin is textured with sleek, black scales. Your wet cunt slides against the ridged surface and you moan directly into his ear.

“Sylus.” Your face burns while you can’t help but grind against the top of his thigh, chasing that lightning pleasure. It’s ridiculous—it’s obscene —rutting on his leg in such a manner. Yet, Sylus praises every roll of your hips, guiding you towards the edge yet again.

Overwhelmed by the promise of release, you don’t notice the dragon’s tail snake around and nudge your dripping entrance. Your hips snap forward, bracing yourself on Sylus’ shoulders as he strokes you again.

His hard cock presses against your own thigh, drooling precum. With Sylus’ hard pants and the stuttering jerks of his hips, you think he’s going to cum any second. But he suddenly wraps a hand around the base of his own cock and squeezes , staving off his own pleasure.

Your body flares at the sight. If this were the rut you’d have him cumming just as many times as yourself. Fucking him dry. But tonight, your pleasure is his to give.

The blunt tip of his tail plunges inside you, drags against your spasming walls, and then you’re climaxing all over his thigh.

“Breathe, sweetie,” he murmurs into your flushed skin. You don’t realize how wound up you are until he drops wet, open-mouthed kisses down your chest. His thigh is coated in your slippery essence, the scales damp and glistening. “You’re doing so well.”

Then Sylus tosses you back onto the mattress, pushes your thighs to your stomach, and smothers his face in your cunt.

A heavy, pleasure-soaked fog envelops you. Sensation merges into a single coursing river through your body, the current building and writhing under the dragon’s generous touches. You don’t know how much time he spends down there, only that you’ve lost track of how many orgasms he draws from your body. You catch glimpses of his face as he licks and sucks and nibbles on the soft flesh of your inner leg. His long fingers disappear into you, one knuckle after another slipping past your folds. You are helpless, twitching mess beneath him as a pathetic sound escapes your mouth.   

And Sylus knows it.

“Oh, look at you.” Sylus’ breath catches as he slides his cock through the mess he left between your legs. You shiver as his tip draws circles along your swollen nub, and parts your wet, pliable slit with a lewd sound.

Lost in your ecstasy, you can only whimper as Sylus rocks his tip into you, then pulls out quickly with a hiss.

“You can barely talk, poor thing.” His teasing words barely register. The dragon’s mouth ghosts across your lips, your cheek, to the tender spot of your temple. His next words are feather soft. “How can I expect you to take the rest of me?”

You whine in protest. “I can do it.”

The dragon’s eyes bore into you. His fingers trail across your skin in slow, even motions. “I’m not sure you can.”

You pause. Sylus does as well. 

Sylus maintains the delicate facade he crafted for you tonight, but in the soothing glide of his thumb circling your hip bone lies an out.

You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him to meet your hips, eliciting gasps from both of you.

“I want you inside me.” Your voice is sharp enough for him to recognize the assent that it is. “Please.”

He moans. “No need to beg.” He guides his weeping cock to your entrance again, the head not quite sliding in but pressing hard enough you almost lose your composure right then and there. “I’ll give you what you want.”

He sinks into you in one smooth thrust.

Oh, you will never tire of this. Not the way his cock splits you open and drags against every inch of you that craves the push and pull of your bodies. Like the fields crave the rain, you will always seek this gentle possession, this safe fall into oblivion.

Sylus worships every sigh and shudder from your responsive body. On supplicant knees, he takes all that you offer, plunging himself deeper into you. Panting into your skin with zealous desperation, his face a ruin of desire. You think if he could stay this close to you forever, he would.

Heady from the countless orgasms you’ve achieved this evening, you savor the measured, deliberate build to your release. Your body grows taut as Sylus cants your hips and grinds his length into your sweetest spot.

You cry out, clinging to Sylus with a death grip as his rhythm turns sloppy and he presses you just a little harder into the mattress. His thumb circles your clit again and you keen. 

“I got you, sweetheart.” Sylus is hoarse with need as he ruts into you at a maddening pace. “Let me take care of you . . . That’s it.”

His teeth graze your throat and you shatter into a thousand pieces.

Sylus empties himself inside you not a moment later, mindless with the pleasure he’s withheld himself the entire night. And in doing so, he doesn’t realize the moment that he bares his neck to you.

You only have a moment to register what he’s done before you're dragged under the pleasure-induced weight of unconsciousness.

-

“I have a gift for you.”

You turn to the book Sylus holds out for you, written in one of the languages you’ve been studying. Leatherbound and small enough to fit in your bag, you flip through some pages and smile in surprise.

“A collection of poems?”

The dragon finishes cleaning you up before joining you on the bed, wrapping his arms around you.

“Not just any poems.” He’s about to say more when his touch finds the outline of a bruise on your skin.

“Sylus?” You watch a shadow darken his handsome face. 

“I was too rough with you,” he whispers, matter-of-factly, like a reminder to himself.

“Please,” you retort, “Compared to the rut, this is nothing.”

You meant to be reassuring, but Sylus’ frown only deepens, and you realize your mistake.

You take his face between your hands. “Which is not to say I found it unbearable either.”

Sylus struggles to meet your eyes. “As you keep saying,” he relents.

How can you convince him that his desire is not in itself an act of violence?

“What is it you fear?” you ask.

“. . . Losing myself,” he answers.

Snapping bones. Ardent gaze. Tearing flesh. A mating bite. 

Though you have satisfied both the rut and the blood frenzy, you’re once again reminded that they will return, that someone new will have to climb the mountain and make the dragon their own.

A shooting pain strikes below your ear. The residual sensation left over from the mark.

“If that ever happens,” you whisper, touching the ruin of his chest, “I will find a way to bring you back.”

However fleeting your life, however cursed his.

When Sylus turns his awed and devoted gaze to you, you know that you would climb a hundred mountains for him.

But tonight, you will rest.

You offer the book of poetry to Sylus. “Read this to me?”

The spell of the evening returns. He smiles, pulling you against his chest the way he did in his nest for all those nights. And then he begins.

“In the wasteland of my heart, an oasis blooms where you step . . .”

You fall asleep and dream of soaring far and high into the clouds, chasing the sunset with wings of your own.

-

You spend the remaining days of the festival exploring the city.

The twins take you to all the hidden attractions you might have missed. You worry that Sylus has yet to take a liking to the harpies, until one morning when Luke and Kieran show up to the priory wearing new clothes you don’t recall buying for them.

You steal a glance at Sylus who is the perfect study in nonchalance.

“You should see Love Among Dragons with us!” Kieran urges on the final day of the festival.

“Tonight is the last performance,” Luke chimes in.

But Sylus is already slinging an arm around your shoulders, saying, “Sorry, but we already have plans today.”

As it turns out, Sylus’ plan is taking you to the city gardens where mages keep the flowers in full bloom despite the late winter’s final frost lingering over the city. You pick your favorites, and Sylus braids them into your hair, kissing the knob at the top of your spine when he’s done.

You know this can’t last. Sylus knows this as well.

But night after night, you return to the priory and take him to bed as if you’re making up for all the time you’ll never have.

There are mornings when you find the dragon perched on the window in the belltower, his face turned towards the mountain as he rubs soothing circles on his chest.

The scents of sweet peas, pink carnations, and winterberries fuse into your hair as you leave the gardens. Too engrossed in admiring Sylus’ work to notice the woman in a heavy shall walking your way.

“You should not be here.”

Your head spins in the direction of the voice. Your gazes meet before passersby split you apart again.

“Something the matter?” Sylus peers at you.

You soften your grip on his arm and shake your head. “Thought I saw someone I knew.”

-

These things are true: the dragon cannot leave with you, and you cannot return with him.

You stand on the docks with Sylus, watching ships trail up and down the river leading away from the lake, slow as snails without a faithful breeze.

The dragon knows that exact moment your thoughts begin to unfold like the wings of a great bird, your heart stirring in time with the gently billowing sails.

You hate when he calls your name, dreading the words that will follow.

“Passenger ships will begin to leave in the morning,” Sylus tells you. “You should get on one of them.”

You exhale. “It is not yet spring.”

“There's nothing for you here if you stay,” he says.

That is what you believed, once. Before your heart said otherwise.

“I don't want you to be alone."

He turns to you. "Shall I keep you as a caged bird for the rest of you life?" His soft words hide a derisive venom. "Is that what you'd have me do?"

You scowl at him.

You want to lie, if only to meet his match, but that would be a worse cruelty than asking him to leave with you.

Because the truth is that you were on borrowed time. What you found with the dragon was never meant to survive for more than a season. And yet, you nurtured it anyway.

Still, you can't help yourself when you ask, “Is there nothing you’ve ever wanted for yourself?”

Sylus releases an uneven breath as he holds your face. “Would it make any difference if I did?”

“It would to me.”

He has the audacity to smile at you then. To trace your mouth with his thumb and adjust your braid as he speaks the words you never want to hear.

“I cannot be yours,” he says, “no matter how much I want to be.”

Sylus does not follow when you leave him standing on the pier. 

-

You decide to go to the play after all.

Determined to make something out of the rest of your time here, you take a shortcut to the theatre which leads you to an older part of the city, poorly lit with many twisting streets and hidden shops. 

“Care for a wishing stone, Miss?”

A lesser fiend sits behind a gemstone stand. Sapphires, emeralds, and other precious jewels you cannot name lie in neat rows along the table. But a handful of stones in particular draw your attention.

“What’s that?” You stop to pluck one of the gems from the table. It is perhaps the most magnificent red you’ve ever encountered, with its smooth surface cool to the touch. Vaguely tear-shaped, with uneven facets that catch the street lamps. As you peer closer, a faint glow emanates from inside, and you feel a strange displaced familiarity.

The fiend grins with a mouth full of pointed teeth. “A stone ‘ill grant you your heart’s desire—but only once .” The vendor prattles on and on while you continue to admire the stone. 

“They must be a powerful mage to create such an enchantment,” you remark with a twist of sarcasm which flies entirely over the fiend’s head.

“No enchantments, I promise you!” exclaims the seller, “Entirely organic dragon hearts, I say—no spells needed!”

The stone slips from your hand.

“What did you say?”

The fiend wets his lips nervously. “Genuine dragon hearts, they are. True as I say!”

You may as well have been submerged underwater with how much you struggle to breathe.

We are no more than meat to harvest.

Bile rises in your throat.

More useful dead than alive.

“—And when has a flesh dealer ever been truthful?”

An older woman materializes beside you. You stumble back in alarm, but her focus is on the demon. She swipes a hand across the table and the wish stones shatter on the ground, as brittle as glass.

She sniffs. “Just as I thought.”

As the fiend lunges across the table for her, she takes your wrist and side steps the creature. “Come away, girl, quickly.”

She takes you down several side streets, across bridges, and through a maze of connected buildings. You have little idea of where you are until you enter a quaint apartment 

“They were good fakes, I’ll admit,” the woman says, retrieving a teapot and some cups. “Only those who’ve seen a real dragon heart can replicate one.”

“Who are you?”

She’s the same woman who’d been staring at you from the window a few days ago, the one you passed on the street earlier this morning. When she finally turns around to serve the tea however, you notice a single black scale dangling from a cord around her neck.

Your heart stops.

“You should not have climbed the mountain,” she utters, her blue-grey eyes a perfect imitation of someone else’s you know.

“It’s not his fault,” you say.

She glances at your arm with a smirk. “And I suppose that is also not his fault?”

You resist the urge to cover your scar.

“You know it’s not.”

Her smile fades, the wrinkles around her mouth settling. “Tell me, does my sister still live?”

Thrown by the sudden change in topic, you slowly nod.

Ancient sorrow clouds her eyes. “I always wondered if she would follow me. I even came back, despite the dragon’s warning.” She fiddles with the scale around her throat.

“One to buy passage to anywhere in the world. Another worth a royal dowry. And a third, to do with it as I wish. As you can see, I’m still waiting for a proposal.” She laughs.

There is something terribly wrong with the woman before you.

“Why did the village allow you to climb the mountain?” you ask carefully, “Did no one try to stop it?”

“It was a witch,” she hisses. “She sent the dragon. The dragon will punish us.” Her gnarled hands twist around the steaming cup. “We escaped, but we are not free.”

“We’ve nothing to fear from him,” you protest, ignoring her ramblings, “you should know that better than anyone.”

She sighs. “He is nothing more than a thrall to fate. His are a kind which desolation follows. He’s told you himself, in his own words. You should be wise to heed them.”

You rise for the door. “I should leave.”

An icy hand clamps around your wrist.

“They’re waiting for you,” she rasps. Gone is the blithering woman. “You cannot go back.”

Something rancid and dreadful sinks into your bones. “What do you mean?”

“I got you away from those hunters,” she breathes. “They came for the dragon. You must leave before they come for you!”

Your hands shake as you stare at the woman in horror.

“You are in danger, child—” You rip yourself free “—Wait, what of my sister . . . ?!”

You rush out of the apartment, not sparing a moment to look back as you race against time to find Sylus.

-

You spot the twins exiting the theatre, chattering excitedly with each other.

“. . . Best performance of the year!”

“. . . My favorite will always be when they finally mark each other—”

“Luke! Kieran!” You grab their shoulders and spin them around. “Have you seen Sylus?”

he harpies stare at you in alarm. “No, he’s always with you, isn’t he?”

Your heart drops out of your chest. You don’t give them a chance to say more before you’re bounding for the last place you saw the dragon.

A golden dusk has settled over the lake by the time you reach the docks.

“Sylus?”

But the dragon is nowhere to be found.

There is only a blinding pain in your skull as you're knocked to the ground. There is only the surety of darkness as something drags you away, leaving a trail of blood behind.

-

“Where is the dragon?”

The acrid scent in the air suggests you’re underground in the city sewers.

“It’ll be here soon—I know it!”

A slap.

“Fool! It would have come for the girl by now if she were worth anything to it!”

You grope the ground for anything sharp to remove your bindings, but then a boot comes down on your fingers, causing you to scream.

“Where’s the dragon, mortal?!” A demon slams you into the ground, spittle flying.

“Tell us!”

“Speak!”

“Dragon whore!”

The next time you scream, fire hurls from your open mouth, burning the demon closest to you to a crisp.

Some of the demons scatter. Others try to hold you down even as flames erupt in your hands, burning away the bindings.

You grab a hold of someone’s dagger and plunge it into their neck.

A human male wraps his hands around your throat and squeezes. You kick out, flailing your limbs, but you can’t escape his grip. You can’t even make a sound.

Just as your strength flags and your vision blurs, a gruesome sound rips through the tunnels.

The hands around your neck disappear and you crumble to the ground.

Screams echo down the tunnels as you push yourself up, head spinning.

A short distance away, Sylus tears the fiends apart, ripping them limb from limb. He snatches one as it tries to fly away and proceeds to snap the demon in half as easily as he would split fruit.

During the entire slaughter, red mist spills from wrathful, inhuman eyes.

It should sicken you. It should terrify you.

But all you feel is relief when he lifts you into his arms, and takes you away from the stench of blood and charred flesh.

-

The blood frenzy doesn’t abate, no matter what you do.

You expected the twins to flee a while ago, but when they saw the dragon carry you back to the priory, they simply closed the doors behind him.

Brave boys, you think.

You don’t have time to question it as you attempt to calm the dragon once more.

“Get back!”

His voice is metal against stone. 

The bloody tendrils which used to creep loosely across his skin, now join at the centre of his chest. Only now do you realize what they mean.

Sylus has run out of time.

Outside, the streets are dark and the city alarms haven’t stopped wringing. The twins explained their meaning to you: a dragon has been sighted; there is a dragon here to kill.

Sylus braces himself against the farthest wall, shoulders heaving and wings snapping as he tries to maintain control. Mist pours endlessly from his eyes. This is worse than that awful night in the woods, with the steam rolling off from the dead caribou.

Because this time not even your blood can’t satisfy the madness.

Between fits and spasms, Sylus begs you to leave.

He made the same request of you before, a lifetime ago. Full of shame and self-loathing as the rut threatens to break his mind. But how can you leave him like this?

You experience a kind of déjà vu as you kneel down beside the dragon.

“I know about your heart, Sylus.”

He freezes.

“Someone stole it, didn’t they?” You bring your hand to his chest without fear, picturing someone else tearing it from his skin. “And made you into this .”

He shudders, wraps a clawed hand around yours to still you. “Nothing so violent,” he says.

He looks at you for the first time since rescuing you from the bounty hunters. Beneath the rage and the sorrow and the pain, Sylus is afraid.

“You gave it away.”

Sylus closes his eyes and nods. His mouth abruptly curls into a deprecating smile. “Not even mated dragons share their hearts with each other.”

But he did.

Of course he did.

It should not surprise you anymore, how much Sylus is willing to lose until he is all but a ghost in the mountains, a memory no one cares to recall. 

Your gaze inevitably finds the hollow where his heart used to be.

A missing heart, a cursed dragon.

You barely have time to watch the pieces fall together in your mind as Kieran barges through the doors, shouting, “They’re here!”

You grab Sylus’ face. “You said the curse couldn’t be broken, but there is a way.” When he doesn’t respond, you shake him. “Sylus, tell me how to break it!”

“The price,” he rasps, “is not one I am willing to pay.”

You fight back tears. “Not even for me?”

“My Dear Shepherd.” Sylus’ touch is gentle even as the frenzy consumes him, distracting you from the devastating roar of the hunting parties surrounding the priory. Even now, you believe you'll be okay as long as you’re with the dragon.

“You’ve given me more than I deserve.”

You cannot stop what happens next.

Black and red explode around you. You and the twins are hurled into the air, crashing back out onto the streets where the fiends lurk in wait.

But they don’t have time to surround you before a roar pierces the sky.

Sylus smashes through the priory, breaking through the roof in the body of a true, raging dragon. Terrible and glorious. All eyes turn to him as he spreads his behemoth wings and destroys the nearby buildings.

Fiends stream toward the dragon, swarming to claim a share of the spoils.

Until the dragon opens his mouth and reigns fire into the streets.

“Run!” Luke screams as he drags you and his brother away from the carnage.

You flee as fast you can from the burning city, from the dragon. You run as your lungs fill with smoke and the city walls melt into stony puddles. 

The air sizzles with the promise of annihilation.

The rest of the night, Sylus’ horrendous screams continue as madness claims him, as the stench of death blankets the streets like plague. Until, with a wretched cry, the dragon ascends to the skies and disappears in a storm of black ash.

-

You and the twins sit along the lake’s edge, watching the city burn. Most have fled down the river. A few arrogant fiends and mortals pursue the dragon into the wilds.

Only when the smoke relents do you turn to Luke and Kieran.

“Why didn’t you run earlier?”

The twins peer at you through sleepless eyes. “Where would we have gone?”

It hasn’t quite hit you yet.

Not until you reach into your bag searching for food, and instead pull out three black scales on a simple cord.

You have lost your dragon.

You knew that you were always bound to lose him. But you are not prepared for the agony as your cries carry over the still waters.

Your neck burns with every tear that falls.

It is time for you to leave.

Yet each time you try to move, you imagine Sylus, alone in the world.

Whoever came before you, he must have loved dearly. For who else would be worthy of the dragon’s heart?

And where is it now, in this vast, unforgiving landscape?

You think about the dragon skull above the guildhall. You think of the bounty hunters spewing vitriol at you in the rotten darkness, and the old woman’s warnings. You think of the dragon hearts, displayed like the finest jewels. Sparkling with the exact same shade of red that has followed you your entire life.

You rise to your feet. “There’s something I must do,” you say to the twins, “Will you help me?”

Luke and Kieran rise with you, cautious, but willing.

“What are you going to do?”

You did not grow up in the gentle forgiving fields just to turn your back on the one most deserving to be saved.

You look across the lake, to the mountain and beyond. To where it all began.

A heart used to curse the dragon, must be able to uncurse him.

You must return to the valley.

To be continued

Can also be read on ao3!

[jintaka-hane]

For the new years event can i request heat and rain by sleep token 👉👈

Also asked by @heats-lover-girl <3

[Masterlist] Kiss your blorbo on New Year’s Eve

HEAT

Summary: If you play with fire, one day you'll get burned. Word count: 1100 Warning: x f!reader; rough kissing All my stories are written entirely in Spanish and then translated into English, so I apologize for any mistakes I might make.

If eyes could eat, you'd be nothing but skin and bones by now.

You love teasing him. In fact, it’s one of your favorite pastimes, and seeing how every little thing you do gets a reaction, you get bolder and bolder.

You always pick moments when he can’t touch you. Is he following orders from the captain? You strut across the deck right in front of him, grinning and swaying your hips. Is he meticulously working on some carpentry project that keeps his hands occupied? You call his name, then give him a flirty wink while biting your bottom lip. Is he busy demolishing an enemy crew? Being a walking flamethrower takes focus, but there you are, gazing at him seductively from a distance, wetting your lips and blowing kisses his way.

"One day, I’m gonna grab you and ain’t lettin’ go," he always growls when you push things a little too far, frustrated because he can’t lay a hand on you. But all bark and no bite, you think with a laugh, skipping away challengingly while his eyes eat you alive.

You know those sunken, haunted eyes of his have traced every inch of your body. That the teeth behind his scarred lips have nearly cracked from the tension of clenching them too hard. And that beads of sweat have slid down that tattooed neck of his as he imagines all the things he’d do to you if he could.

But the commander with the blue-tinted dreads never takes action. Maybe it’s shyness, or maybe he’s just waiting for the right moment. Either way, that threat of his never comes to fruition, and you keep provoking him, like a little bunny daring the wolf to strike.

“… and to kick off the year like the last, tomorrow at dawn, we’ll conquer another fucking island! NOW DRINK!” Kid shouts, half-drunk, concluding his usual New Year’s Eve speech.

The crew cheers, raising their drinks high and spilling them everywhere, though hardly anyone actually listened. They’re too busy fighting over bites of the epic feast Killer prepared, while the blonde tries to shove people away from the mountain of roasted meat.

It’s always chaos aboard the ship on New Year’s Eve. Preparations start out orderly enough, with tasks divided to decorate the ship using whatever you can get your hands on. Stolen shiny objects, glittering scraps of metal, or pieces of looted treasure. Everything’s fair game and counts as festive if you look at it the right way. But as soon as the captain climbs up onto the massive dinosaur skull to give his speech, things spiral out of control because you all know what comes next. Barrel races over the water, drinking competitions and arm-wrestling matches with high-stakes bets, and the traditional “treasure hunt,” with a very drunk Wire as the guardian.

You clutch your stomach, laughing uncontrollably as you lie sprawled on the deck, your clothes and hair completely soaked from the countless times Bubblegum has tossed you overboard. Quincy reaches out a hand to help you up, and you grab it, letting her pull you to your feet while swiping Hop’s drink on the way up.

“Hey!” she yells, launching herself at you and knocking you back to the ground. You can’t stop laughing, and amidst the playful scuffle, you feel it again. Those eyes burning holes into your body.

The tall commander hasn’t been able to take his eyes off you all night, his tattooed arms resting on the railing and his long hair cascading over his shoulders, staring at you as if you were the only person on the deck.

"Guys, guys, guys! The cannon!!! It’s almost midnight!!" Dive yells, bouncing up and down as she points at Kid, who sets his drink on the railing and aims the ship’s main cannon at the sky.

Everyone scrambles to their feet and rushes over there. It’s going to be spectacular when he fires it, and no one wants to miss the show. You wrap your arms around Quincy and Bubblegum, and at Killer’s signal, everyone starts shouting the countdown.

"Ten, nine, eight, seven, six!"

Kid lets out a wild howl at the top of his lungs, and the crew cheers, joining him before continuing with the countdown.

"Five, four, three, two, one!"

BOOOOOOOM!!

The captain laughs maniacally as he fires the cannon, the explosion shaking your chest and making you gasp as thousands of glittering scraps of metal rain down on you. The crew roars, and just as you open your mouth wide to shout “Happy New Year!”, a few taps on your shoulder stop you. Raising an eyebrow, you turn around, and for the first time since joining the Kid Pirates, you tremble.

"Got you," Heat says, his imposing figure looming over you, eyes filled with the desperation of a ravenous man. He grabs your cheeks, guides your face upward, and before you can react, crashes his mouth possessively onto yours. His tattooed lips move against yours in a rough, almost bruising kiss, leaving you with no choice but to surrender and kiss him back.

"UUUUH!!! Woohoo!! Go get her, Heat!" You hear cheers and whistles erupt from the crew.

The sparkling rain of metal continues to fall around you as you laugh into the kiss, your hands blindly tracing the snaking designs inked on Heat's neck before tangling in his locks. He hums, low and pleased, then his hands roam over your shoulders and down your back. When you finally need to break for air, one of your hands presses against his chest. But as soon as you tilt your head back, he growls, his grip tightening on a strand of your hair to keep you in place.

Wolf-like howls echo around you and you give in. Your fingers grip the laces of his corset as his other hand moves lower, settling on your lower back and closing the small gap between your bodies. Breathless, you try once more to pull away, only for him to growl again, his jaw tilting against yours as he nips at your bottom lip, coaxing your mouth open further to deepen the kiss.

"Uh, okay… I'll take Dive," you hear Killer say.

"No!" Dive stomps her feet and protests.

"Yes, ma’am, we’re going...," the first mate adds, and you’re certain he’s watching as Heat becomes wild, gripping your ass as if he can’t get enough of you. "In fact… we’re all going. Guys! The party continues in the aft castle!"

"YEEEES!" the crew roars, leaving you helpless and giddy in the wolf's grasp.

................................................

Taglist: @fanaticsnail @armiliadawn @pandora-writes-one-piece @i-am-vita @eustasscapitankid @nocturnalrorobin @daydreamer-in-training <3

[abigailovesz]

CHAPTER 7 THE WAKING

pairing: jj maybank x lara croft!reader

summary: you and jj run into dangerous people, but make it out together and alive.

warnings: gunfire and combat, Injury, emotional intensity, mild language.

chapters next chapter

It rained through the night.

the kind of storm that felt personal - loud, thrashing. It swept over the jungle and buried the world in sound, carving trenches into the earth and washing away footprints, blood, and time.

you and jj had found shelter in the hollow belly of an ancient stone outcrop. a fire crackled low between you, its light catching in the wet gleam of jj’s skin, the shadows under your eyes.

neither of you slept.

you sat with the idol in your lap - the jaguar skull still gleaming, ruby eyes dark now, like they’d closed. your fingers traced the carvings around its base, reading silently. jj studied you. “ya ever stop movin' girl, even in your head?”

you didn’t look up. “not if I can help it.”

“I get that.”

he was lying on his side, propped on one elbow. his shirt clung to him, damp from rain and sweat, bandage stained. but his expression had softened - not in pain, but something else. something closer awe.

you tilted the idol toward the fire. “there’s a map inside. coded into the ruby refractions.”

jj blinked. “wait - in the light?”

you nodded. “If I align it correctly, the eyes reveal a projection. a location. likely the burial site of Ixchel’s final guardian.”

he stared at the thing like it might bite. “and that’s…good?”

“It’s the last piece. If I’m right, this is where the key lies - to unlocking the full power of the altar.”

jj frowned. “what happens if we unlock it?”

you looked at him finally.

“history remembers us. or kills us trying.”

by dawn, the storm passed, and the air smelled of wet moss and gunpowder. you both packed up in silence. the projection revealed a location - buried deep beneath the jungle in what appeared to be a sinkhole long ago sealed by a cave in. you had triangulated the route. jj had loaded the weapons.

It was almost routine now - except it wasn’t.

because something in yours n jj's quiet had changed.

the way you brushed your fingers against his arm when you passed him the compass. the way he looked at you when ya thought he wasn’t. you were walking closer, now. not just physically - intimately. like two people who had stood on the edge of death together and found something worth clinging to.

you reached the edge of the sinkhole by noon. It was overgrown with ferns and vines, the stone slick with moss, the opening narrow - nearly invisible unless you knew where to look.

you knelt and ran your fingers across the outer ring of glyphs. “It’s sealed from within. which means -”

jj groaned. “we’re going in the hard way.”

you smiled faintly. “there’s a phrase for that. tomb raiding.”

the descent was brutal. ropes, darkness, cave rats, and finally - a tight vertical shaft you had to squeeze through one at a time. jj went first. he reached up when you followed, bracing your hips as ya lowered herself, the heat of his hands lasting even after they were gone.

“ya alright?” he asked.

you nodded, brushing hair from your face. “I’m fine.”

he didn’t let go right away.

then he did.

and you walked into the dark. the chamber you found was breathtaking.

carvings of the goddess Ixchel covered the walls - weeping, protecting, destroying. at the center stood a circular dais covered in obsidian shards, and above it - a hollow in the ceiling where sunlight would strike at exactly noon.

a stone mural stretched across the back wall - a map. except it wasn’t geographic. It was spiritual.

“Ixchel’s passage through the underworld,” you read. “this was transformation.”

jj stepped closer. “It’s like a prayer. or a warning.”

you turned to him, startled. “you read glyphs now?”

he gave a lopsided grin. “nah. I just feel it.”

you stared at him, blinking. and in that moment, under all the dust and blood and mystery, you smiled - not politely, not because she had to. It was real. jj’s grin faded into something deeper. “your smiles cute, y'know.”

your eyes flickered, cheeks flushed. “oh dont word it like tha-.”

his voice softened. “it's true.”

you didn’t kiss. but his words hung heavy - like the next breath could be it.

but then a sound shattered the moment.

footsteps.

you tensed. “we didn’t trigger an alarm.”

jj stepped in front of you - again - just as two figures entered the chamber from the far tunnel. It was dr. serrano - the woman funding the expedition. her expression was hard, her gun even harder.

beside her, a man you didn’t recognize - but jj stiffened.

“fuck - rayder.”

the man smirked. “long time, maybank.”

jj's jaw clenched. “you set me up back in havana.”

“business, bro.”

your eyes narrowed. “you know him?”

jj didn’t answer.

serrano stepped forward. “you’ve led us well, miss Croft. thank you for opening the tomb.”

jj’s voice was like steel. “you used us.”

“you’re useful. that’s different.”

you shifted subtly, hand close to your blade. “ya won’t get out of here with the idol.”

serrano smirked. “you’ll help us. or I shoot the boy.”

jj moved closer to you, not away. then you spoke. “don’t you dare.”

serrano didn’t hesitate - she fired. you tackled jj to the ground as the bullet ricocheted off the dais. In the chaos, you rolled, flung your knife, and hit the lights. darkness swallowed them.

the fight was short but brutal.

jj wrestled rayder into the wall. blood, fists, curses.

you disarmed Serrano and got to the idol. gunfire, a scream. and then - silence. when the dust cleared, Serrano and Rayder were gone - wounded but escaped. the idol was safe. the tomb was damaged but intact.

jj sat slumped against a wall, blood on his lip, breathing hard.

you dropped beside him, heart racing. “ya alright?”

he looked up at you - disheveled, bruised, and alive. “I am now.”

taglist ! - @maybejj - @delayeddrabbles - @kittykatinc - @hotvampdragon -@bbyg4rl - @freyawhitexxx1 - @dafnym - @thaynoir - @venusmoonsblog - @agrixdulce - @imsojules - @obxlover4life -

[emmy-germany]

They complete each other 🔥

They never searched for the other, but once they found out they are a surprisingly good team, they bonded for life 😍 bromance at it’s best

[emmy-germany]

❤️‍🔥🥵

[highladyandromeda]

Shadows of the Heart

Part 5

Azriel x Fem!Reader

Summary: After years apart, Y/n returns to Velaris, bearing the weight of sacrifice and secrets from her past. Reunited with Rhysand and his Inner Circle, she navigates the complexities of rekindled friendships and unresolved tensions. 

WC: 3.1k

Warnings: mentions of blood, self-inflicted injury, a brief moment with unhealthy thoughts about body image (this is specifically marked with 1 star (*) at the start and 2 stars (**) at the end), unhealthy thoughts about pushing oneself too far

[Prologue], [Part 1], [Part 2], [Part 3], [Part 4]

Y/n was exhausted. 

She could feel her muscles ache as she dipped deeper into the bath the house had drawn for her. The smell of tuberose and neroli drifted up from the bubbles surrounding her, the perfectly warm temperature adding to the pleasant atmosphere.

Yet she couldn’t get herself to relax a drop. Come to training, they said…it’ll be fun, they said…what liars, she thought.

Who invites an injured and recent coma patient to train, at dawn no less? Isn’t this the bloody Night Court? Y/n fumed, why do they all wake up so early now?

A glass of wine appeared by her side as if the house sensed her irritation as well. 

Sighing she picked it up, and finished it immediately, a bottle appearing once she placed the glass down. She let out a laugh, wondering if she should feel offended that the house assumed her morale was so low. As if understanding her thoughts, a bottle of whiskey appeared and disappeared next to the wine, before a series of books dropped down. Judging by the titles and bits of conversation from last night, Y/n had a feeling the house was using a…tried and tested method of comforting raging females. 

And speaking of rage, she was quickly losing the high of recusing Mor and returning to Velaris. Yes, she was exhilarated to see her family thriving, but the duties she had would quickly catch up to her. Counting down, it had been nearly 3 weeks since she disappeared from Vallahan and the magic tower must be getting frantic now. Not to mention, Demetrius, who’s sure to assign her so much work, that she’d not have a chance to leave the tower once she’d returned, or Ryder, who’s definitely praying that she’s dead in a ditch somewhere. Y/n knew she could use the investigation for the cult, the same cult she felt poisoned Mor, as her cover, but that excuse could only hold for so long. 

Ugh. Stupid Rhys and his stupid bargains. She hoped Demetrius would receive her message fast enough, the only reason she forced herself to the training ring before sunrise. Her mediation session was a chance for her to send a holo projection to Demetrius’s office. The time-consuming aspect was not bypassing the wards of the house, which she should actually speak to Rhys about strengthening, but rather condensing her…situation and what she wanted him to do, as to expel the least amount of energy. Teleportation with blood meant her magic would take a longer time to recover. Besides, the last thing she needs is someone sensing her magical signature in the tower when she's been away for so long. 

Luckily, she was able to mask her communications from the IC with her subsequent spar, which she convinced herself was necessary. It wasn’t because the moment she locked eyes with Azriel, she had this urge, this desperate desire to know what it would be like to go one-on-one with him.

No, she only offered because she knew she could last as the participant of a spar, rather than give up control for exercises or obstacles which would reveal her current weaknesses. She refused to think further on how beautifully he moved and met all her strikes, and how pretty he looked under her–No, think Vallahan, magic tower, angry masters….

Just recounting it all was giving her a headache, Y/n thought, dunking her head underneath the water. She almost wishes it could swallow her whole right there, and give her a reprieve from this. 

She came back up gasping, water sloshing onto the floor. 

*Y/n grabbed a towel, standing up and deciding that she might go too far should she stay in there any longer. She faced the mirror while drying herself off, looking closely at how prominent her collarbones were and how her ribs hit out. She looked away, trying to bury the simultaneous discomfort and pleasure she felt, the same as the morning when she changed into her leathers and needed to tighten them with her magic. 

Y/n knew that she looked unhealthy and her magic could only take her so far if she let her body fail, but a voice at the back of her mind enjoyed the visuals, a lasting validation of her struggles. With her magic usually healing her immediately, Y/n rarely got the chance to convey her struggles, always pushing forward since it seemed the pain was never there in the first place. She briefly wondered if Azriel would understand, he seemed to know that sort of darkness, of both craving and despising it. **

Feeling a bit claustrophobic, she decided to step out onto a balcony before dinner, knowing that everyone would be there after she missed lunch. Though she could already feel her appetite disappearing at the thought of facing Amren and Nesta’s piercing gazes, not to mention Mor and Rhys’s overt concern. She raised a hand to her head, trying to rub away another impending headache before halting right at the balcony entrance. 

Mother above, Y/n felt herself freeze in horror, unable to look away from the smeared and dried runes. All in blood, all in her blood. No wonder she slept for so long if she kept losing even more blood after this she thought, a cold dread settling in her bones. 

Why is it still here…The thought that Rhys might hesitate to erase them, out of fear or respect, and that Amren and Nesta might see them as a curiosity to be studied, only deepened her sense of isolation. How could they not see the horror in what those runes represented?

The world began to tilt, a disorienting spiral that made her stomach churn. The vast sky above seemed to press down on her, the air growing thick and heavy, a physical force that threatened to crush her. 

"Are you okay?" The concern in the question was palpable, but it only served to startle her further.

Cauldron boil me, Y/n thought, spinning around so quickly her knees gave way beneath her. But before she could fall, strong, calloused hands steadied her, the familiar touch of shadows wrapping around her with an almost protective embrace. She didn't need to see his face to know who it was—the shadows were a signature she'd come to recognize.

"Y/n, are you alright? You seem faint," the voice came again, soft and concerned, lifting her gently until she was forced to meet his eyes—hazel orbs filled with a depth of concern and understanding that momentarily stilled the chaos within her.

It was a connection, fragile and fleeting, but in that instant, Y/n realized she wasn't as alone as she had felt. The shadows that enveloped her, the hands that steadied her—they were a lifeline, pulling her back from the edge of her own darkness.

She swore time stopped for a moment before she felt the hands around her quiver, his gaze drifting to the runes behind before her actions caught up to her. It was then that reality snapped back into focus for Y/n, prompting her to instinctively step back and slip out of his gentle grasp.

In her quick withdrawal, an attempt to shield her sudden vulnerability, she missed the fleeting look of disappointment that crossed Azriel's features. Y/n hurriedly filled the silence that had grown between them.

"We shouldn't keep them waiting" she announced, her voice carrying a forced lightness that couldn't quite mask the disquiet lurking beneath. Her smile, tentative and fleeting, was an attempt to hide the depth of her unease from Azriel’s perceptive gaze.

Dinner was a silent affair, the burning stares and questions on Y/n waiting to reach the surface, especially after her display earlier that morning. 

Each forkful of food echoed louder than usual until Amren, with her characteristic bluntness, pierced the quiet. "Y/n, the blood magic you used before...how did you know about it? "

Cassian, unable to resist adding to the conversation, jumped in with a grin. "Yeah, the teleportation was so cool! Are you part-witch?"

Amren's sharp glance cut him short. "She's a sorceress, you oaf. Obviously, she's mastered more than a few ancient tomes."

As Nesta voiced her curiosity, "Mastering tomes? What does that mean?" Cassian overlapped with, "How did you even find Mor?" The barrage of questions seemed to only spiral from then, with several of them wanting details on her magic and her discovery of Mor. 

Amidst the several inquiries, Azriel, ever attuned to Y/n, noticed the tremble in her hands hidden under the table, a stark contrast to the calm facade she presented. His shadows stirred restlessly, a mirror to his growing concern.

Mor's complexion turned ashen as the fact dawned upon her—Y/n had ventured onto the balcony, the very place of their nightmarish ordeal. Attempts to steer the tide of questions fell on deaf ears, "Y/n, I... we didn't think..." Mor’s voice trailed off, her apologies swallowed by the growing fervor of curiosity.

Y/n took a deep breath, attempting to veil her frustration with patience, a task made increasingly difficult. They meant well, she repeated, she owed Rhys, she thought before the noise got to her. She hated being faced with curiosity and pity just as much as she hated being questioned–she had saved Mor and shown she wasn’t their enemy, wasn’t that enough?

With a huff that signaled her surrender to the inevitable, she pushed her chair back, its screech halting the interrogation, and drawing surprised glances from the table. Rising from her seat, she walked away, leaving a trail of astonishment in her wake.

Azriel reacted with swift concern, following her with a worry that mirrored the concern etched on Rhys, Mor, and even Feyre and Lucien's faces, while Cassian remained behind, a shadow of guilt tinging his features.

Y/n paused for a moment at the split between the staircase and the hallway to the balcony, debating the merits of locking herself in her room. She felt she deserved the right to scream into her pillow before rejoining them. 

But the sound of footsteps behind her reminded her of the nosey nature of her friends here. If she tried to hide, there’d be no telling the lengths they’d go, she may as well just complete it now.

Upon reaching the balcony, Y/n summoned her magic, materializing a dagger in her hand. With a steady hand, she made a precise incision along her arm, her expression unflinching as crimson blossomed against her skin. She cast a fleeting glance at Azriel, her vibrant red eyes catching the light, mesmerizing him as her blood began its descent toward the magic circle below.

His shadows twitched uneasily at the sight; the others, having followed, stumbled into a collective pause, caught in a mix of awe and horror as they watched her blood reanimate the runes. Y/n commanded the runes to levitate, dripping and spinning around before she condensed them into a single, blood-diamond-like point, which then vanished within her grasp. Turning to face them with a smirk, she downplayed the gravity of her demonstration. 

"See? Not a big deal," she stated, though her casual dismissal did little to ease the tension.

Azriel, moving with a purpose, reached for her, his shadows conjuring a cloth to softly wipe the blood, still dripping from her arm, away. The gentleness of his touch left Y/n taken aback, her heart skipping a beat at the care with which he wrapped her arm, his shadows having brought bandages as well. She couldn’t remember the last time someone else had treated her wounds, especially those so insignificant, so kindly. 

Meeting his gaze, she was confused at his crossed expression, but before words could form, Mor enveloped her in an embrace, her apologies spilling out in a hurried flurry.

"I'm so sorry, Y/n. I should've—" Mor's voice cracked, the weight of her remorse tangible in the air between them.

"It wasn't your fault, Mor," Y/n reassured, her arms wrapping around her friend in a firm hug. "I would do it all over again for you," she whispered a vow that drew a fresh wave of tears from Mor, her embrace tightening in response.

As they finally parted, Lucien's voice cut through the momentary silence. "I must say, your control was impressive back there."

Y/n couldn't help but roll her eyes, a playful retort on her lips. "I've always been this good, Lucien. Maybe you just weren't paying attention."

His laughter echoed around them, a challenge sparking in his eyes. "Is that so? We should spar sometime then. Test out that control of yours."

Y/n pretended to be annoyed but she was grateful to him for changing the atmosphere. Lucien always knew how to put others at ease. 

"Sure if you think you can keep up. Feyre, you're welcome to join his side. He'll need all the help he can get."

Rhys chimed in with feigned indignation, "And why am I excluded? My mate should be my partner."

Y/n's laughter mingled with theirs, and her spirits momentarily lifted. "Because I've beaten you too many times, Rhys. It wouldn't be fair." She teased, earning a gasp of mock indignation from him.

Their laughter was a balm, easing the tension that had settled over the dinner.

Walking back, Y/n glanced at Lucien with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. Resting her hand lightly on his shoulder, she leaned closer, her voice laden with playful intent. "Looks like we're teaming up then" she teased.

A knowing smile danced across Lucien's lips, a silent agreement forged in the span of a heartbeat. Together, they proclaimed, "We'll scatter them like leaves in a storm!" 

The statement, filled with the memory of past battles, echoed around them, their laughter a symphony of friendship and challenge.

Feyre, caught in the ripple of their amusement, couldn't help but interject with a wry smile. "Well, I guess I'm stuck with Rhys then." Her words, light and teasing, were accented with the unbreakable bond she shared with her mate, even as they prepared to face off in friendly competition.

All the while, Azriel's gaze lingered on the casual touch between Y/n and Lucien, their laughter and the seamless harmony of their declaration stirring an unfamiliar pang within him. His stare was intense and unyielding, as he watched the easy rapport they shared—a connection he found himself envying, as he stood silently on the fringes of their banter.

Azriel's desire to offer Y/n the same sense of belonging and ease was palpable, yet he chose the quiet acts that spoke volumes of his intentions. As they walked back to the dining room, he found an opportunity to express his support. With a gentle touch, he slid Y/n's chair out for her, a gesture of silent solidarity that sought to make her feel seen and valued in the way he knew best.

"Thank you," she whispered, her gratitude a soft note amidst the evening's chaos of emotions. Though her gaze briefly wandered back to Lucien, caught in a moment of quiet tension with Elain, it was Azriel's thoughtful action that anchored her.

Amren's voice drew her back. "I’m sure you created quite the spectacle, sorceress”

In response to Amren's observation, Y/n met her gaze firmly. "I don't owe anyone explanations, Amren…But out of gratitude for the welcome back," she paused, weighing her next words carefully, "I will tell you that yes, I am a sorceress. A highly ranked one, at least in Vallahan’s magic tower."

Her eyes flickered to Mor, a silent pact of trust between them. She wouldn't reveal the intricacies of their reunion—how a royal meeting had spiraled into chaos and Mor's dismissal of her warnings had nearly cost them both dearly.

"Part of my work has led me to investigate a cult revering Koschei, a dark sorcerer," Y/n continued, her voice steady despite the weight of her revelations. "It was through this that I found Mor in danger. The use of blood magic wasn't a choice made lightly. It was the only method swift and silent enough to ensure our immediate return without leaving traces of magic that could be tracked. And given Mor's poisoning, traditional portals I could open—with their elongated passage of time—weren't an option."

The table fell silent, the gravity of her words settling heavily upon them. Each member of the Inner Circle sat a little straighter, their expressions alight with a mixture of awe and deepened as she explained further about her work and magic. The dinner conversation, initially subdued, blossomed into a vibrant exchange of stories and insights.

Lucien, seizing the moment, shared his own adventures and the bond he'd formed with Vassa, expressing a hopeful desire to introduce them, perhaps as a means to unravel the curse that bound the queen.

It was then that Rhys saw an opening, his voice slicing through the conversation with a proposal for Y/n. "Y/n! This is the perfect opportunity, if you feel up to it, why don't you continue your research here?"

Before Rhys could elaborate, Mor chimed in, eager to offer the resources at their disposal. "Exactly, the House of Wind has a wealth of books that could aid in your research. I can ask the priestesses to help—"

"I can help. You." Azriel's voice, cutting through Mor's suggestion, carried an uncharacteristic nervousness. "I mean, in your research. I can help you with the research." The room fell into an unusual silence, all eyes turning to him as he attempted to clarify, "If you're conducting research, that is. I don't want to rush you, of course. You need time to recover. I'm just—uh—offering since I have experience with such investigations... not to say you need my help. I—I thought it might be... more efficient, yes..."

Azriel's voice tapered off, his gaze skirting around the table to avoid Cassian and Nesta's barely concealed smirks and Rhys's poorly disguised cough of amusement. The surprise etched on everyone else's faces spoke volumes, each one silently wondering if they had ever witnessed Azriel speak so awkwardly and at length.

"Oh, I'd appreciate the company, Azriel," Y/n finally responded, her tone warm.

"You would?" Azriel's gaze snapped to Y/n, a flicker of hope lighting his eyes, only to be momentarily dimmed by her stern look toward Rhys. "Since I'll be intruding for the foreseeable future, I might as well be productive."

"I—I wouldn't want to invade, though," Azriel hurried to add, the earnestness in his voice unmistakable.

Rhys couldn't hide a snicker, quickly masked by a sudden straightening in his chair, bouncing his right leg up. 

Azriel’s shadows whispered something about a kick, but his attention was already captured by Y/n's soft smile. "I'd welcome the help," she reassured, her simple acceptance igniting a spark of anticipation in Azriel.

A/N: Hi everyone, sorry for the delay in posting this chapter, I was traveling and then dying with studies. But the plot thickens...Are we curious about Y/n's work as a sorceress? I planned out the next scenes on my flight so I should have the next few chapters up in a faster succession.

And thank you to everyone who's liked/commented/reblogged this story -- it means so much to have you all enjoy this!

For my tag list, I tagged everyone who asked and those who commented on the previous parts. If you'd like to be included, please just let me know. 💕

TAGLIST: @strangelygreat @enfppuff @trip-n-sal @inloveallthetime @annamariereads16 @mybestfriendmademe @mariahoedt @annblvd @ania-swissweet @yearninglustfully @sleepylunarwolf @quiettuba @gorlillaglue25 @lilah-asteria @naturakaashi @sillymercury @itsswritten @xlosttdreamss @kennedy-brooke @xyzmeh @lucky7rosie @copenhagenspirit @collide-with-the-music @starsinyourseyes @dianxiaxiexie @maybefoxysouls @golden-canyon @violet-potter @thisiskaylin @acphengene @katherinejess @sevikas-whore @kalulakunundrum @hibye02 @madscamp02 @willowpains @jaybarding @kalulakunundrum @sevikas-whore @katherinejess @acphengene @thisiskaylin 

[morrowfel]

Calliope of the Spartiates

Sneak peak of this scene ↓👀

"Of course, he left. She begged him to stay. In her shame, she shed tears. She clutched at him as he pushed her away. In his hard face she saw the contempt, the rage. What else could make him look so angry, if not his disgust for her and all her weakness?

With a final shove, he sent her slamming into the ground. Sobbing, she made to chase after him, but froze as Persephone summoned the great Elysium warriors to her aid and loosed them on her father.

Calliope screamed a warning that was never heard. The first soldier dashed to strike him with a spear, an attack that never landed. Quick as a snake, her father dodged, hands immediately going for the soldier’s neck, and in one terrible crack, he was no more.

She gagged in horror, burying her face in her hands and curling into the dirt as the warriors howled with rage. The screaming seemed to last for ages, interspersed only by even more horrible sounds. Bones crunched. She heard bodies drop to the earth like marionettes with their strings cut. The stench of hot blood filled the air. In a dim, panicked recess of her mind, it was a stench she knew all too well.

She dug her fingers into her face as hard as she could. A stinging pain followed where her nails broke skin. Suddenly, the shouting stopped and in its place was something strange and unearthly. Metal scraping on metal, the whooshing of a raging fire before it consumed a forest. It was the sound of something truly evil.

As Calliope peaked through her trembling fingers, she saw that before her was no longer a man, but a monster, nightmarish and terrifying. Her father’s sun-browned skin had turned an ashen white, as if all the color had drained from his body. At first, all she could see was his back, where the red tattoo reappeared, slashing across his body like an open wound. He spun, striking his victims down with such precision that he looked almost as if he was dancing.

But all of that was forgotten when her eyes landed on the curved blades he bore, terrible and sharp enough to slice through bone. As the blades swung, slashing from man to man, the metal burning so intensely that the air itself simmered with heat, horrible realization dawned on Calliope.

The river had not lied.

[heavenbloom]

🇵🇸 BEFORE YOU READ: DONATE • BOYCOTT TLOU

ꫂ ၴႅၴ — 𝒂 𝒏𝒆𝒘𝒃𝒐𝒓𝒏 𝒔𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 | 𝒑𝒐𝒆𝒕!𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒆

a vague continuation of this, but you don’t have to read it to understand this one

song: vicino a te — stevio cipriani

summary: after your first, brief encounter, ellie sends you a letter — with this sweet, foreign feeling blossoming in her chest, she’s too nervous to say anything in person.

warnings: 18+ mdni, fluff, letter format, ellie’s pov, yearning, kinda love at first sight, mentions of (greek) mythology, religious imagery, probably ooc, flowery language, not proofread

a/n: i should be writing other, bigger projects but i love letter writing so much, they’re the purest form of love

Dear moonlit one,

How terribly confused you must be by this letter; I am sorry for it in advance.

Perhaps it might have been more appropriate to visit you, to speak more than a few pleasantries before scampering off into the night, but, as you may have noticed… well, I have no talent for speaking.

How ironic that seems coming from a poet! Words are my profession, perhaps even my religion. I suppose, however, I can only wield them with ink and not with my lips. I have always been this way; a penchant for the quill in preference to conversation.

That is why I write to you. I can be honest here, without my nerves getting the better of me.

I want to express my deepest apologies for my insolence on that revelrous eve. Rushing off without so much as a goodbye in spite of your good nature was unkind of me, and there is no justification for it. Even so, I must explain myself;

Excuse my cynicism and my continuous irony, but I have never believed in a fairytale love. I have an apt appreciation for the picturesque and I feel deeply about many-a-thing; these qualities have made me an adequate enough poet, for I can replicate the beauty of the world that surrounds me. I can structure stanza upon stanza inspired by a scent or a face. I am an observer, therefore I have endured.

But a love that strikes as abruptly as a serpent unsheathes its fangs? A love that robs the lungs of air and renders one’s body feather-light? All because of a glance, a smile, a laugh— of course I was skeptical. How could one not be?

But it was not until I saw you on that argent night, dreamy and gentle, that I could at least come to an understanding. You appeared like the goddess Selene, so very luminous that no words could form in my useless mouth. What was I to say, in that moment? What words spoken could have done justice to the divinity before me?

And your laugh, oh, that laugh… it was as if the sound of your voice was laced with the very harps of heaven. I have not been able to listen to another’s joy without missing the beauty of yours. How foolish I am.

Why do I ramble in such a way? What I mean to say is that your mere existence has awoken me to the pearl ensconced within the centre of our lives. A precious and delicate thing that hit me, unabated. That is why I left you in such a hurry. I was enchanted, and I was afraid of it. In that moment, I was afraid of you, too. The power you held over me was seizing.

But I have gained my bearings. Of course, I cannot say that I love you, a stranger. I know near-nothing about you, and yet, in these sleep-laced hours before dawn, I wish I knew everything.

Sealed within this envelope are dried apple blossoms, birthed from a late-blooming tree. The little buds make the paper smell fragrant, but they also reminded me of our fleeting encounter. And of you; sweet and vibrant. Cheerful, even towards a person you had never spoken to. I hope they soften the suddenness of my letter.

In earnesty, I pray that you write back to me. Even if it is just to reprimand my audacious behaviour, that would be enough.

With sincerity,

E. Williams

[kirain]

Part nine of my appreciation project.

@riadoodles A fic based on their wonderful art piece here. Thank you for feeding the fandom!

Dawn's laughter rang across the frosted clearing, echoing with Bellara's giggles as they packed more snow around Manfred's skeletal frame. The young wisp wriggled his fingers, vibrating with excitement as the two elves worked diligently to fashion him into the perfect snowman.

"Looking good, buddy!" Dawn leaned back, admiring their creation. "You're going to be the most dashing snowman in all of Thedas."

Manfred gave an enthusiastic hiss, waving his bony hands as Bellara smoothed the edges.

A few feet away, Emmrich stood beside Neve, both sipping steaming cups of hot chocolate. The rich scent of cinnamon and cocoa curled in the crisp air, calming and delightful.

"If we were in Minrathous," Neve said, amused as she glanced at the scene before them, "we'd be at the Proving Grounds, watching the tournaments."

Emmrich exhaled, his breath visible in the cold. "If we were in Nevarra, we'd be at a grand feast, giving thanks to the Maker and convening with festive spirits."

The two fell silent as Manfred let out another pleased hiss, wiggling in his snowy encasement.

"This is far better," Neve chuckled.

"I couldn't agree more. There's no greater joy than celebrating Wintersend in the company of those dearest to your heart."

"Speaking of," Neve frowned, "why aren't Davrin, Esha, and Lucanis out here?"

A fair question. Taash and Harding had returned home for the holidays, but the rest of them remained at the Lighthouse.

Emmrich smiled behind his mug. "Well, Davrin needed a much-deserved break from Dawn."

"Understandable," she tittered.

"As for Esha and Lucanis, I did invite them." He shrugged. "But they said they had to practice their sparring."

Neve raised an eyebrow. "In the pantry?"

Emmrich choked on his drink, cheeks flushing pink as the implication hit him. Before he could respond to Neve's knowing smirk, Dawn called his name.

"Hey, Emmrich! Check it out!"

Relieved for the distraction, Emmrich quickly finished his beverage and made his way towards them. As he stepped closer, he watched as Dawn added the finishing touches to his masterpiece, and his blush deepened. Despite his best efforts, he found himself staring at Dawn's hands—slender, steady, always teasing, always touching him in ways that made his breath hitch.

"Manfred looks so cute!" Bellara clapped, pulling the older man from his lecherous thoughts.

"He does," Emmrich nodded. "Thank you both so much for spending time with him. I know he appreciates it."

Dawn waved him off. "Please, it's fun hanging with Manfred. Especially since he's such—"

"Hot! Shit!" Manfred declared, too innocent to understand the words.

The moment froze.

Emmrich's jaw dropped.

Dawn winced.

"You're dead," Bellara squeaked, stifling a laugh.

Dawn took one look at Emmrich's scandalised expression—and bolted.

"Dawn!" Emmrich screeched.

But he'd already vanished into the trees.

Emmrich gave chase, his voice carrying through the forest. "Get back here! We need to talk about what you're teaching him!"

"Not my fault he picks up only the best words!" Dawn called back.

Emmrich scoffed in exasperation, scanning the woods as he lost sight of the slippery elf.

"Dawn, come here! I'm being serious!"

Suddenly, a snowball struck him square in the back of the head.

Emmrich staggered, blinking in shock. As he whirled around, he spotted Dawn standing atop a powdery hill, his scarf tied around his head like a kerchief.

"Avast, landlubber!" he grinned. "Ye dare challenge Captain Dawn the Dread?"

Emmrich groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Oh, for the love of... get down from there! And wear your scarf properly, before you catch ill!"

"Only if ye be man enough to best me in combat!" Dawn yelled, striking a blusterous pose, his arms akimbo.

Before Emmrich could protest, another snowball whacked him in the shoulder.

That was it.

His brow twitching, the older mage raised his hands, and with a flick of his wrist, the air above Dawn shimmered before a pile of snow crashed down on top of him, burying him in an instant.

"Okay—!" A muffled yelp sounded from beneath the heap. "That wasn't fair."

Dawn surfaced, spluttering snow.

"Need I remind you that you started this?" Emmrich smirked.

And just like that, it was war. Snowballs flew like cannon fire, both men ducking and dodging, laughter mingling with Dawn's exaggerated pirate dialogue. They battled like titans of the sea, until finally, Emmrich struck Dawn in the chest.

"Ugh! A fatal blow..." he rasped, clutching the spot dramatically. "You... were a worthy opponent, Captain Volkarin." He stumbled back, collapsing into the snow. "Go forth. Find all the treasure in Thedas... and prosper."

Emmrich rolled his eyes, but a chuckle escaped him nonetheless. Seeing Dawn sprawled out on the ground, feigning injury—he couldn't cling to his irritation, not even for Manfred's sake. He would save the lecture for later.

For now, there was only one thing he wanted.

Without a word, he pulled Dawn to his feet, the snow crunching beneath his boots. Then, with a slow yet suggestive tug, he unravelled the scarf from Dawn's head and wrapped it around his neck—warming him, protecting him from the frigid breeze.

With that kind, intimate gesture, the air between them shifted. Dawn, still breathless from laughter and revelry, glanced up at him with a confident smirk—yet in the golden depths of his eyes, Emmrich caught a flicker of vulnerability.

His fingers lingered at the edge of Dawn's scarf, his thumb grazing the temptatious curve of his throat.

"I've already found my treasure," he whispered.

Dawn gasped, his hands zipping to Emmrich's shoulders as he was suddenly dipped backwards. The motion stole the air from his lungs—not from fear, but from the sheer certainty in Emmrich's hold, the strength in his arms, the way his gaze burned with something fierce and unwavering.

Then, Emmrich kissed him.

A languid press of lips, heat rushing through them as they savoured the taste, the nearness, the reprieve from the cold. And Dawn—always impatient, always desperate for more—slid his fingers through Emmrich's hair, drawing him closer. The gentle touch sent a shiver of ecstasy down the older man's spine, his heart pounding wildly.

"Keep going..." Dawn begged.

The kiss grew hungrier, his arms curling around Emmrich's neck, and Emmrich groaned, firming his grip in response. Slowly, his tongue traced the seam of Dawn's lips, slipping inside to devour every moan, every whimper, every delicious glide of his tongue.

"Mmm..."

The elf arched further, utterly consumed by it. By him. Emmrich gave, and Dawn took, playfully nipping his lip whenever he could, eager to match his intensity. But Emmrich was older, more experienced. Every deep stroke, every possessive squeeze of his hands was envigorating—a reminder that when they were together, Dawn didn't need to impress nor be in control.

He could simply indulge.

When Emmrich pulled away, it just enough to murmur, "You're a menace."

"You love it," Dawn wheezed, his cheeks glowing a telling shade of red.

"Maker help me, I do."

Dawn smiled, his body loose and trusting in Emmrich's grasp. "Happy holidays, Emmy," he purred.

"Happy holidays, Dawn," he sighed, his eyes shimmering with desire.

As the sun sank below the horizon, flakes of snow drifted from the sky, melting against their skin. They knew they should return, that the others would be waiting, but Emmrich wasn't ready to let go. He kissed Dawn again, thanking him for the way he cherished Manfred, for the joy he brought to those around him—and vowing that he would never abandon him.

There was no rush, no world beyond this quiet, perfect moment. Just them, defying winter with their fervent embrace.

[the-garbanzo-annex-jr]

by Zvika Klein

As dawn broke over Tehran today, it wasn't the usual hum of a busy city greeting the morning. Instead, the reverberations of precision strikes echoed across Iran’s strategic landscape. You could almost picture the startled faces behind closed doors in Iran’s power centers, scrambling to understand how Israel managed to pull off an operation so audacious, so brazen, and yet so meticulously calculated.

For over three hours, Israel has been striking with unprecedented precision, unmasking a simple truth: Tehran, for all its bluster, isn’t untouchable. You can almost feel the tectonic plates shifting under Iran’s feet as the “regional power” finds itself reeling, looking a lot less like the force it projects to the world and a lot more like Hezbollah, scrambling to avoid the light.

Imagine the dilemma for Iran’s leadership – retaliate and risk a spiral that might burn everything it’s built, or stay silent and let Israel’s quiet triumph ring louder. Either way, Iran is backed into a corner of its own making. A response would almost certainly turn Tel Aviv into a potential target, but after tonight, Iran knows that Israel can just as easily reach Tehran. This isn’t a vague threat; it’s a promise that’s landed, with clarity and force, right on their doorstep.

Israel changed the game

Israel has done more than just attack military installations here. It has rewritten the rules of the game, showing that it has both the nerve and the know-how to reach where it needs to, to disrupt what it must. This isn’t just an exercise in military might – it’s a statement. Israel has stripped Iran of some of its military edge in a single night, leaving the so-called “regional power” scrambling for control over its narrative, like a magician left with empty hands in front of a disappointed audience.

What we’re witnessing isn’t just military strategy but also a glimpse of a new regional dynamic. Israel has drawn a line that will be felt in power corridors well beyond Tehran. It’s a lesson in calculated defiance, one that sends a message to Iran and its proxies: Israel is ready to protect its own, to reach into even the most fortified of regions if it means safeguarding its people. The reverberations of tonight’s strike won’t fade quickly – they mark a turning point, a shift that might just reshape the balance of power for years to come.

[emmy-germany]

No, that’s because the oh-so-perfect Michael cheated on his wife. Damien might be an asshole and a womanizer, but he was faithful when he was in his relationship with Richmond. And they didn’t knew each other enough for trusting enough that Michael‘s infidelity wouldn’t affect their safety in the field. Damien took the marriage of Kerry and Michael more serious than Michael at this time.

And that’s what pissed him off.

But I am also glad that Michael came back to his senses before it got out of hand completely. In the beginning I thought Michael was an even bigger problem than Damien. And in the end, he and Damien couldn’t even go separate ways after the S20-end, they were brothers and truly best friends

Kerry, your wife, remember her?

This is what I don’t get it about Scott and Richmond. Damien made such a big deal about fraternity in this scene and then he did exactly the same. Really? Maybe, he was just jealous ;)